


Northern Migration

by miamaroo (BFTLandMWandSek)



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, Spoilers for taz balance, Team as Family, What if Lucretia doesn’t wipe everyone’s memories and the IPRE get to hunt down the relics together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-28 01:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 220,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13261191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFTLandMWandSek/pseuds/miamaroo
Summary: Fate pulls a string: Magnus doesn't put on his shoes and Lucretia doesn't wipe everyone's memories. All knowledge of the Grand Relics is erased, ending the war they had released onto this world, but the Seven Birds still have each other. Finally, they are free to stop running, start living, and move on with their lives.Then the Hunger finds them.Now they have one year to come back together, reclaim their relics, and stop the apocalypse once and for all. But time has changed everything, and they're not the only ones seeking to claim the Grand Relics as their own. But after twelve years of hiding from the living storm, are the Seven Birds still meant to be the heroes of the multiverse or is there a new story in flight?





	1. In Which Magnus Forgets His Shoes

Istus rarely changes the tapestries she weaves, but there are occasions where she is known to pull strings. It’s a small change. Miniscule, really. Tiny enough that no one will know where her hands have been. She picks a red thread, tugs it, and watches the fate of her future emissaries change.

For no discernable reason, Magnus Burnsides does not put on his shoes. He’s one of many aboard the ship that makes laps in the sky over Faerun. He has spent all evening painting a carving of a duck that resembles his reclusive friend. It’s rough work, but he’s proud of it. There’s no point in waiting until the morning to give it to her, so he pulls his red jacket on over his pajamas, then stares at his lace up boots. He’s a copper tone human who venomously hates having a cold anything, much less feet. He would never be caught walking down the metal and wood hallways of the _Starblaster_ without something to keep them warm, but today he shrugs and leaves without them

It saves him only one single, short minute.

Yet, with those sixty seconds, he opens the door to Lucretia’s room in time to see her standing with a foot on her desk, another on her chair. The green of Fisher’s tank reflects off her dark skin and colors her white hair as she holds a volume of her journals over the fish’s tank. She freezes, eyes wide as she sees him step inside.

Magnus drops the carved duck. He rushes in.

“Lucy!” In a moment, he has his arms wrapped around her waist. Holding her to his chest, he yanks her away from the tank.

Her foot knocks a stack of books and they crash to the ground into a pile of papers and clothes that wouldn’t be there if she was in her proper state of mine.  She presses her journal to her chest in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control. “I was just—” She gasps as Magnus heaves her away from the creature that can erase knowledge. “I’m sorry, but I had to. I had to stop it.”

Magnus grunts as he holds her to his chest, trying to decide what to do. The shelves lining half of her room are only half filled with books, the majority being spread in piles throughout the room, leaving him with less options of where to put her. The bed is clear but seems too close to Fisher’s tank, but when Lucretia kicks his thigh and demands to be treated like the adult she is, he decides it’ll have to do. He drops her on her on the mattress. She lands with an undignified thump, neat curls going askew as she looks up at him with a tense stare. The fabric of her red robe engulfs the journal.  

He doesn’t think. He’s known for doing that. “The hell were you doing?” he demands.  His blood feels hot in his veins. “Drop that in there and we’ve all would’ve forgotten! Everything, gone!” None too gently, he wretches the journal from her. Lucretia cries a protest, but he holds it out of her reach.

Magnus glances back at the tank, his face loosening. He cools. “Did you maybe forget? Fisher eats books and music and stuff. Did you forget—”

“No.” Lucretia shakes her head like she’s trying to knock her brain out. She sounds choked up, but she doesn’t acknowledge the tears leaking down her cheeks. “I… No, Magnus. I didn’t forget. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Magnus.”

Magnus Burnsides does not consider himself a smart man, but he has a set of good ears and a friend crying before him. He lowers himself on the mattress, setting the journal down on one side and pulling Lucretia close on the other. She curls into him immediately, crying into his shirt as he holds her close in his brawny arms. His starts to lean back into the wall until he remembers the paintings of their family she hung by her bedside.

Instead, he curls into her, whispering into her ear, “It’s alright, Luce. You’re alright. What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

She is willowy and he is burly. He presses his face into her white curls and locks of his auburn hair fall into her face. Her breaths are shuddering and uneasy while his calm and steady belie a frantic heart. They are brother and sister forged by an impossible journey.

Because of an extra minute, Magnus hears everything.

* * *

Magnus calls a meeting. It’s the middle of the night, the nocturnal air buffering the ship’s sides as the members of the ship’s crew shuffle into the kitchen. Davenport and Merle are already there, stowing a half-finished bottle of wine in the cooler and collecting a deck of tarot cards. They are small and their feet are light, but their age gives them the presence of giants. Barry and Taako join them a few minutes later—both sunken eyed, front heavy as they drag their limbs onto their respective chair.

Lup’s usual seat is empty. They don’t talk about it.

Only when everyone else arrives does Magnus pull out Lucretia’s chair and beckons her to sit. His feet are still bare, and for the first time he notices how cold they are. He almost asks to steal the blanket he had wrapped around Lucretia’s frame, but she holds it around herself like a hug and he doesn’t think he’s allowed to ask.

The crew is quiet. Magnus lets the screeching of her chair being pushed in call the meeting to order. All eyes turn to Lucretia, then flicker to him. Taako crosses his legs and sticks his hand under his chin. “So.” Beneath his exhaustion, there’s a sharp venom. “What’s crackin’ big guy?”

Magnus thumps the journal on the table, startling Lucretia. She blinks as though she’s tuning her brain to this reality.

Merle hops out of his seat. A few unfortunate flowers fall out of his beard and hair. “Coffee,” he says, shuffling to the pantry. Along the way, he crushes the few wayward plants under his socks-and-sandals combo. “We need coffee.”

Davenport almost sighs, but twirls a finger in his ginger moustache instead. “So what couldn’t wait until morning?”

Magnus squeezes Lucretia’s shoulder. “Go on, tell them,” he says.

She hesitates, then she talks like she’s never talked before. Her voice wavers and shakes, but unlike the horrible cycle where she was left alone, she holds back the wretched sobs that fight up her throat. Merle places a cup of coffee in front of her, but she doesn’t acknowledge it as she confesses her guilt. The radiuses of black glasses, the mangled vines, the illusions made real—the horrors their artefacts have inadvertently wrought upon this plane.

The crew listens. Davenport never takes his eyes off her and Merle pats her arm. Barry clasps his hands and presses them to his mouth, stone-faced but nodding. Taako stares at the opposite corner of the room and drums his fingers on his thigh.

Lucretia talks. She explains how one becomes immune to Fisher’s magic. She says how she was going to feed her journal to him—

Taako slams his hand on the table. “ _Fuck_!”

Lucretia winces, and Magnus takes a protective step forward.

“Taako!” Davenport admonishes, but the elf is still staring at the opposite corner. His eyes want to glare at Lucretia, but he flickers them away each time. His forehead is grooved in a scowl as the slammed hand tightens into a fist.

“Now c’mon,” Merle says, trying to keep his tone even. He tries a loose smile. “You’re a grown elf. Use your words.”

Taako turns his face away. “Don’t mind me. I’m just the only fucker on this ship who remembers Lup.” His voice cracks.

Barry finally reacts, wiping sweat off his face as he groans. He places his hand on the table near Taako—not on him, but close if he wants it. Taako ignores it. “Look, Lucretia—I get what you’re doing, but between our mission and details of our home world, you’d be erasing the majority of our lives. Who knows what that could have done to us psychologically.” He glances at Taako before leaning in closer to her. “Lup—she could still be out there. If you’d erase everything tonight, she’d have lost everything and no one would’ve been there for her. Did you think about that?”

Lucretia shakes her head before bursting into tears. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I just wanted it to be better. I couldn’t stand it. I just wanted this to be better.”

Magnus envelopes her again, hushing her as she turns her head and cries into the fabric of his red jacket once again. Merle joins him. “We understand,” the dwarf says. “Pan knows we do. I just wish you talked to us about it.”

Davenport turns to Barry. “Take a pitcher and go to her room,” he orders. “I want us inoculated from that thing’s magic.”

Barry stares at him for a moment before nodding. His chair screeches as he pushes it back.

“Wait.” Everyone pauses, then looks at Taako. He moves stiffly, his joints mechanical as he uncrosses a leg and turns back to his family. His eyes are red, but no one mentions it. He holds his hands out like two parallel lines. “Listen—it’s not a bad idea. Like, the whole erasing our memories and leaving us in the woods like Air Bud is shit, but everything else. Not the barrier thing, just _almost_ everything else.”

“Taako, the point,” Davenport says.

“This plan will work as long as our shit is out there being wanted. Doesn’t mean that shitheads have to know about it.”

Barry braces his hands at the edge of the table, mouth agape as he thinks it through. “Oh my gods… you could be right.”

Taako nods. “I am right.”

“Catch me up,” Magnus says.

“Everyone down there is fighting over the Light stuff because they gossip about it over a steaming cup of Fantasy Folgers and say, hey, this sounds cool as fuck. But if we inoculate ourselves and then erase all information about them, then they’d just forget what they were fighting over.”

“It’ll end the war down there,” Davenport muses out loud. “Without direct knowledge of what our artefacts are, it’ll stem back instances of them being used.”

“And it’ll be alright for Lup too since she’d wouldn’t forget about us,” Barry adds. “Since she probably went planetside to do something about her gauntlet, she wouldn’t have any reason to stay down there any longer and come home.”

Merle huffs. “So this is the perfect plan?”

“I mean, there’s always the possibility that making everyone forget might result in no one wanting any of the artefacts, which might have the horrific result of the Light being detected by the Hunger,” Barry says, “but it’s slim enough for me to chance it.”

Davenport turns to Lucretia. “Well, what do you think? Is it a good plan?”

She stares at them, wordless for a long moment. She doesn’t smile, but she does bob her head. “Yes. Let’s try it.”

Magnus squeezes her shoulder again, beaming as Barry rushes to get a pitcher of Fisher’s ichor.

Merle takes a long sip of his coffee. “And this is why we talk things through like a _real functional_ family.”

She snorts and ignores the pang of painful guilt that still vibrates in her ribcage, leaving her feeling more hollow than before.

* * *

Seven things happen to seven birds.

The six remaining members of the _Starblaster’s_ crew inoculate themselves against Fisher’s magic. All but Lucretia mix the ichor with martini syrup and gag when concentrated lime does nothing to curb the awful taste. Taako says it tastes like gogurt and cackles at their groans. Then they write out all the information they want the world to forget. They debate how much of the war they want to erase, going deep into the early morning hours as compromise after comprise is made. When all is agreed upon, Davenport feeds the packet to Fisher. And they wait.

By the end of five weeks, Barry declares it a success. He presents charts tracking the sharp decline of mass destruction in Faerun. They see parts of the land mending as refugees find places to settle and families rebuild homes. For the first time in a long time, there is hope.

For Taako, hope is gone as quickly as it comes. He prowls the _Starblaster’s_ deck as he waits for some sign that Lup is out there. He goes to every major city as asks if anyone has seen a woman with his face. No one has. He despairs. He finally breaks down in a bar on the coast, crying in a bathroom stall as he thinks for the first time that his sister might truly be gone. As fast as the thought comes, he pushes it away. He fixes his makeup, adjusts his red robe and jacket, and makes a plan.

Three leagues away, Lup’s being swims inside an umbrella as she struggles to stay conscious.

To rest of his family, Taako all but disappears. Barry and Merle find him a week later a few towns away, interrogating an adventuring group with reckless spells. “I’m not going back,” he snaps as he fires a thoughtless spell at his brother-in-law. “I’m not going back there until I find her!” They fight and argue some more until Merle pushes Barry back. Taako is his own person. If his mind is made, they can’t change it.

Once Taako leaves, the remaining five realize for the first time in a century that they have lives they get to live once again.

Seven birds migrate.

* * *

Lucretia leaves first.

“There’s a painter’s guild in Raven’s Root,” she tells her family over breakfast. “It’s not going to be much, but it’s a nice town and I haven’t gotten to do much painting these past few cycles. It’ll be a good change of pace.”

While the majority of her family stares at her in shock, Merle nods sagely. “Sounds good to me.”

Davenport tries to object, but Merle cuts him off. “She’s not a prisoner, Dav. If she wants to paint, let her.”

A week later, she packs up her things and goes planetside. That night, Magnus sits in the common room, carving a new duck for Fisher as Merle trims a plant and Barry reads. Davenport sleeps in an armchair, curled on the cushion like a child.

The silence is painful.

A week later, while sweeping the deck, Barry breaks down in tears. “I’m never going to find her,” he says, pressing his sobbing face into the deck. Davenport pats his back, sympathetic but nonetheless uncomfortable with the display of emotions. “She’s gone, gone, gone and I’m never going to find her.”

They have a funeral, but before Merle can get through the rites of burial, Barry stops it. “It doesn’t…” He never finishes the thought, but it’s not one that can be properly spoken in the first place.

Sildar Hallwinter, known as Barry Bluejeans to anyone from a two-sunned planet, decides that he needs to start fresh. With each passing minute, being where his gentle love with Lup started brings him more and more pain. He attempt to find a position at the Neverwinter University for Magics ends with him learning that necromancy is not only heavily frowned upon on this plane, but supposedly regulated by the Raven Queen. He doesn’t risk it.

He teaches basic arcana for a year until he meets Maureen Miller. She offers him a chance to use his specialized knowledge to help her study the planes of existence, and that is that.

Merle and Davenport are playing cards one night, caught in a comfortable silence, when Merle speaks. “Y’know, there’s like this alternate reality version of my family down there. The good old Rockseeker clan. Followers of Pan and everything.”

Davenport plays his card on the table, pauses, then reaches for his wine. “That so?”

“Yeah, but—” He swats an imaginary fly away. “—who needs them? I got the best family in the world right here.”

Davenport starts to smile before remembering himself. He tries to hold it back, and the fact that Merle guffaws at his red face only makes it worst. “S-s-so.” He clears his throat and regains some shred of his dignity. “I was actually thinking. Not that I don’t think all the time, but.” He takes a deep breath and starts over. “There’s no point in just circling the world anymore, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving the _Starblaster_ behind.”

Merle hums and places a card on the table, though any pretense of this being just a game of fantasy yooker is long gone. “Understandably.”

“Right. So, what if we land somewhere? Maybe in a harbor, by the beach.”

 The dwarf pretends to think about it for a long moment, picking at one of the flowers woven into his beard as he considers the thought. “Well, we’re both a tad too young to retire, but I think we both deserve it for dealing with all the crap we’ve been dealt.”

Davenport smiles and drinks more wine.

And that is that.

Magnus doesn’t stay to find out what the _Starblaster_ would be like with only him and the two old guys. He shoves the bare minimum of his belongings in a sack, gets Merle to promise to care for Fisher until he gets a place of his own, and joins his family on solid ground. He wanders the land for a few months, gets in a few fights and makes a few enemies, before finding himself in Raven’s Roost.

He stays with Lucretia—now an apprentice for an aging painter— for a month until, early that spring, she tells him about the Waxmans. “They’re really nice and Steven’s work is incredible,” she says as she practices sketching. Her skill is beyond that of any apprentice (has been for decades), but training is a formality she’s willing to wait through. At least guilting Magnus into posing is an efficient way to force him to stay still long enough to lecture. “Julia, though. He’s given up trying to teach her. She’s actually a pretty great blacksmith, but that’s not the point. There’s an apprenticeship opportunity with him. It’ll be good for you and keep your back straight please.”

He does so with a grumble. “Already want me out of your hair?”

She doesn’t look up from her pad. “You’re bored and you need something to do with your life beyond crying over every dog you see.”

“They’re good dogs, Lucy.”

He meets the Waxmans a week later. Steven greets Magnus with a firm pat on the back, and it’s all he needs to feel welcomed into his shop.

The months passes him by as the skills he learned at the conservatory are refined into perfection. Magnus makes a point of seeing Lucretia as often as possible. Sometimes they get dinner or see a show, but most often than not he brings a block of wood to fiddle as he watches her paint. At first they talk about the past and wonder aloud how their friends are doing.

Then one day, Magnus brings up Julia. He tells Lucretia how strong Julia is, how she prefers metal working to carpentry. Then he stops himself, smiles, and asks about the painting once more.

A month is no short amount of time, but to Lucretia it feels like a moment. An exhale, in and out, and the last of the spring snow is gone. All Magnus ever talks about is Julia. They meet for coffee, and Magnus says, “Julia always asks for extra whip.” They sit at the edge of one of Raven Roost’s many cliffs and he says, “I should take Julia here for, like, a picnic.” Always, always Julia.

Lucretia prides herself in knowing people, especially her family. She couldn’t have written journal after rigorous journal about their odyssey and not gleam something about the human condition. She knows that this is how love is like, yet she sees less of the Magnus Burnsides she knew for a century day after day. It’s not Magnus barreling into danger for the thrill of it. It’s Magnus and Julia. It’s always Julia.

Maybe she’s jealous.

Julia meets her for coffee. Lucretia sits on an old anvil with a steaming mug as Julia sits opposite to her, polishing a steal sword as she talks. “Magnus told me about your adventures,” she says, white teeth bright against her soot-smeared face. No amount of grime can conceal her dimples and smile lines. “I almost don’t believe any of them, but he’s also the guy who admits to doing anything wrong just because he doesn’t believe in lying.”

“It’s all true,” Lucretia says as she watches the orange glow of the hearth highlight Julia’s dark skin. She’s lighter than Lucretia, but shades darker than Magnus. A midway between the two. “Some parts are probably grossly over exaggerated.”

Julia’s eyes sparkled. “So he didn’t fight a giant bear.”

“Actually that happened.”

She laughs. Lucretia can’t help but to join her.

Julia straightens her back, presses her lips, before pushing a loose curl back into her bun. “I think you can answer a question for me then. If I wanted to free Raven’s Roost, how would I do it?”

Lucretia stays for the rebellion. She’s glad to, especially when it sparks a light of heroism in Magnus. He does the storming, Julia the planning, and Lucretia the protecting. Together, with the rest of Raven’s Roost, they overthrow Governor Kalen. Magnus kisses Julia long and hard on the lips as they celebrate. His fingers knot themselves in the tight coils of her hair as she in turn casts aside her sword and swoon in his arms.

Lucretia spends the next week in the makeshift infirmary, helping clerics bandage and heal. She wraps white cloth around the bleeding wounds of bakers forced to rise up. She soothes an injured child whose parents died in the rebellion. Magnus and Julia are better suited to help repair the burned down homes, but Lucretia stays with the people. She sees the stitches and splints being made, the _mass heal_ being cast, and wonders how much worse the land was after the war.

Painting helps no one but herself, and she’s not the one in need of saving.

Lucretia stays for the wedding and, of course, the whole family arrives. Davenport and Merle arrive in the _Starblaster_ —Davenport amazed to see Magnus settle down, Merle happy to get Fisher out of his beard and into Magnus’s. Barry comes at the nick of time, a little fatter and a little older, and complaining about being held up by an experiment. The twins are still missing and it hurts, but none of them try to talk about it.

Taako is out there somewhere. Lup, no one knows.

Barry cries during the ceremony, but they don’t ask why. The answer is in the ring he twists on his finger.

That night, Magnus takes a moment away from the merriment to step aside with Lucretia. “You’re quiet,” he says. When she shrugs and says nothing, he takes her arm and guides her away from the dance floor and to the gazebo. He carved it by hand, and she painted flowers onto the wood. “The portrait you made us? It’s incredible Lucy. We both cried when we saw it.”

Lucretia smiles. “It’s your wedding present, so I’m glad you like it.” She sits on one of the benches. “I think it’ll be my last one my last one for a while.”

“Art block?” He takes the spot next to her.

She shakes her head. “I’m thinking of a career change. There’s a lot of people in the world who need help. I’m sure there’s a few churches or schools who could teach me how.”

Magnus frowns. “You’re leaving Raven’s Roost.”

“They have the Burnsides to help them. There might be some place out there that needs a Lucretia.”

Magnus takes her hand in his. He swipes a calloused thumb over her knuckles, but says nothing. The night air is warm with summer. Fireflies dance inches from their faces. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I get it.” He kisses her forehead. “I’ll miss you, Lucy.”

She smiles. “It’s not forever.” She means it to be comforting, but it stings.

They once had forever to make every mistake, to take every chance offered to them. A repeated century is stifling in its own way, and she will be the first to admit that she breathes easier now than she ever did traversing the fabric of reality with her family. But now, this is their last chance to get it right. She’s not sure she knows what that is—what looms so great above them that demands they give everything but their failure. She can’t say what it is. She doesn’t even think Barry or Merle or even Taako knows.

But they’re here, they’re living, and it’s all permanent.

Their last chance for life.

When Lucretia leaves, she swears she’ll make it a good one.

And that is that.

 

* * *

_I saw all of existence all at once. I saw a dark storm—a living hunger eating it from within. But I saw a brilliant light dissevered by seven birds hiding from the storm. Then I saw seven birds migrating._

_The twins, captive from each other._

_The lover, destroyed by his own heart._

_The protector, a rebel and father._

_The lonely journal keeper, now the lonely healer._

_The peacemaker, at peace._

_And standing beside him, the wordless one._

_Then I saw a string being pulled, and the birds return north. I saw the storm follow and the hunger meet them._

_There were seven birds._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an actual mess, but I wrote and surprisingly like it. So, yeah. I swear future chapters will be way less summary, but I really wanted to get through what actually changed in this universe as quickly as possible. I have an idea of where this is going, but I'm really writing this to bring back some semblance of spontaneity back into my stories, so nothing is massively planned out. This will get way less angsty though, especially once the ball really gets rolling.
> 
> I'm going to try to keep each chapter under 5k just so that I don't take three months between updates trying to crank out 20k at a time. Next chapter should be super soon (like tomorrow soon), but I just realized that there should probably be an extra scene between this and what I wrote for next time, so we'll see what happens.
> 
> Please leave a comment with whatever you think. If you wanna chat, you can find me at miamaroo.tumblr.com
> 
> See you next time!


	2. In Which Barry Has a Great Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry Bluejeans ends up at the wrong place at the wrong time and makes a shocking discovery.

If he is being honest, Barry will admit that he sometimes forgets that Barry Bluejeans is not his real name.

If he’s in the mood to willfully embarrass himself (without Lup around, the chances of that are zilch), he’ll even tell you the full story of how his parents wanted him to apply to the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration despite his insistence that he would never get in. But one night, while getting drunk off his ass with his brothers, Sildar Hallwinter filled out the worst application he could think of. To the increasing snickers of his off-the-rockers siblings, he wrote an essay explaining how Kelly Faulkner’s sour apple flavored bubblegum ruined his life from the fifth grade onwards. He gave himself the dumbest name he could conjure and sent the application off without another thought.

Three months later, IPRE sent one “Barry Bluejeans” an invitation to take the entry examine. A little note at the end explained how the admissions officer thought his essay was the perfect example of hilarity being used to mask a deep-rooted trauma. I made it this far, Sildar thought to himself. Might as well see it through.

He got a perfect score and, the next thing he knew, he was being introduced to the science department as Barry Bluejeans. The way he saw it, he had two options—admit to his peers that his name was wrong, or ride out the joke for as long as possible. The latter was the far superior and hilarious option. He always thought it was amazing how readily people believed that anyone would name their child something so stupid, especially when he was being honored as one among the seven experts embarking on the first voyage across the planes.

After a hundred years of hearing himself be called nothing but Barry Bluejeans, he’s sure that he’s simply not Sildar Hallwinter anymore. He’s just plain old Barry—existing in a planar system that is not his, living as a lich beneath the cover of mortal skin, without Lup, and without a job.

Well, it's not all bad.

The planar system he’s still getting used to. Despite the twelve years since he and the rest of his friends separated the Light of Creation into seven artefacts, he’s still surprised to see one less sun in the sky. His eyes still strain to cope with a lack of light he’s not used to. Despite staying in the sun for as long as possible and as often as possible, he’s sure he’s suffering from a lack of vitamin D. His skin’s reached level of paleness that would’ve classified him as severely ill on his home plane. But all that is more of an inconvenience than anything. Given another fifty years, he’s sure he’ll get over it.

Or he’ll die. Whatever comes first.

Barry doesn’t allow himself to think about the lich problem. He’s not sure what he’ll do to avoid the Raven Queen’s emissaries when the time comes, but he has a distinct feeling it won’t be an issue. Without Lup, he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold himself together. He might just go insane. Then the Grim Reaper will simply be putting him out of his misery, and for that the agent of death will deserve a well-earned fruit basket.

Lup’s disappearance he’s going to fix, especially now that he’s out of a job.

Dr. Maureen Miller died three hundred and sixty-five days ago in an accident Barry should have foreseen. But he was used to the expanses of the infinite layers of planes and realities. He’s seen worlds where there are signs of civilizations, but no beings that created them. He’s seen sprawling forests of poisonous mushrooms and the towering gloom of four judges striking down all without virtue. Barry looked through the Cosmoscope, saw the vast realities and the swirling universes and the Hunger treading through the stars in a fruitless search for the Light of Creation, nodded, and wrote down the necessary numbers.

Then he handed the reigns to Maureen and said “check this out.” She did with a smile and, well.

People die. But this death was not a gentle one. Barry’s spent the past three hundred and sixty-five days trying not to think about it. He’ll like to keep it that way.

Her son, a genius of a brat named Lucas, fired him the next day. Or at least, Barry thinks he did. The poor kid was sobbing. Snot was flowing out of his nose like a waterfall and it was all very gross and incomprehensible. Barry decided to play it safe. So he packed his bags and left.

Now he’s unemployed and, for the first time in twelve years, free. There’s no struggling to gently introduce this technologically inept world to the science of his home plane. He doesn’t have to look through a arcana-infused telescope and see the very being he’s spent a hundred years fleeing from in the far distance and worry for the briefest of moments that maybe his and Lup’s plan won’t work out in the end. For the first time in twelve years, Barry feels one-hundred percent in the moment.

And he’s going to use it to figure out what happened to Lup.

He used his job as an excuse to not have to emotionally cope with Lup's disappearance, but that doesn't mean he hasn't spent the past ten years brainstorming theories. He can think of a thousand logical fates for her, each more horrible than the previous, but that’s thinking a step ahead. Right now, all he has to do is think like her.

Lup never said why she left for planetside so suddenly, but in the weeks leading up to her disappearance he noticed her researching any hard to reach place in Faerun. She started with places no living being could survive, then turned to high-security locations. Deduction tells Barry that Lup wanted to seal her artefact away, but it fails to tell him which location she settled on.

So for the past year, he’s been roaming, searching any place Lup might have gone to in search of any decade old clue of where she went afterwards. Sometimes, he wonders if Taako has already found her, but he can’t even find a sign of him anywhere in the land. Sometimes, when Barry thinks about how lonely the world is without his bright-eyed girl, Barry worries that the answer he seeks may not be one he wants to find. Sometimes, he thinks about giving up and hide from the truth once again, but already did that and it left him miserable and aching with guilt.

So, he searches.

* * *

Phandalin is a charming village, one of those little towns on the verge of a population boom. It’s located a day’s walk off the High Road, and an even longer distance from Neverwinter. It’s a good place though, complete with an inn and a good selection of shops. Retired white-collared workers in Neverwinter seeking an escape from the city's bustle are starting to move here in search of a idyllic retirement stead. The people who've lived in Phandalin all their lives loath the idea of city folk ruining their quaint lifestyle, but there's no denying how excited they are to see their town bloom into something new and lively. Phandalin is on the verge of something wonderful.

Here, a fifty-seven year old Barry Bluejeans stumbles upon a particular problem. He needs to leave for Wave Echo Cave at dawn, so he should spend his gold pieces right now on any gear he might need. But it’s colder in Phandalin than the last city he spent an extended time investigating (he’d thought that Lup might have chosen Goldcliff’s famous bank for its prime security measures and ornate style, but a month of digging brought up nothing), so he’s going to need a new cape.

And the nearest tailor has a robe already made. One that happens to be made out of quality denim. It’ll definitely keep him warm and, if he runs into anyone he knows, a jean robe would fuck with them sufficiently.

Barry pressed his stubby fingers on his chin, humming as the sales clerk looked on with an impatient, yet eager visage. He also hasn’t owned a robe in years. Somewhere between leaving the _Starblaster_ and being hired by the university, his IPRE uniform was left behind. But it might be considered a midlife crisis if he tries to bring back the style of his youth.

The clerk drums her fingers on the counter. “Do you need any help today, sir?” she asked with a painful smile that drips with contempt.

Barry doesn’t reply, too deep in thought. He can even bust out some of the transmutation magic Taako taught him and enchant the denim to look like the organization’s signature scarlet. But Taako would also tease him about it for the rest of his days and then some.

The clerk grinds her teeth. “ _Sir_?”

Consider this: it will also really fuck with Taako.

Barry takes the denim robe off the hanger and holds it up. “How much?”

He steps out of the shop a few minutes later with a bright red, denim cloak draped over his pudgy frame. The clerk practically growled at him when he enchanted it to be red right after handing over the proper coins, but the horrible sound she made at his delight was more than worth it. Barry adjusts the sack slung over his shoulder, feels his change _clink_ in the new robe’s pocket, and struts down the street. He sees a few people stare in horror at his fashion choice and his stride only grows more confident.

As much as he loves research, he can’t deny how his pursuit of science interferes with his hobby of messing with people. Thank goodness he’s unemployed now.

He’s only a few feet into the town square when he notices a sight stranger than himself: a human man pacing back and forth in front of the well with a map in one hand and a stone of farspeech pressed to his ear. His paleness is that initially sets Barry off rhythm, but it’s the frantic tone he speaks into the stone that makes Barry pause.

“Can you put a new one on Brian? Or is he…” The stone makes a booming noise so loud that even Barry can hear it. The scratching static of a broken connection follows it. The man lowers the stone, holding it in his palm as he stares. Then, in a fit that doesn’t become his handsome face, he kicks the well’s stone wall. “Damnit!”

The man tunes the stone to a new line. “Plan’s gone to shit. Brian’s gone. Everyone retreat back to Phandalin.”

Barry presses his lips. If there’s trouble in the area, he’s going to want to know about it before leaving tomorrow morning. He sits on a bench close to the man, pulling his sack—a disguised bag of holding—onto his lap in the process. He rummages around for a moment before finding an ancient tome. He found it in the lost library in the farthest reaches of Faerun (another local Lup could have chosen), and finds it to be great light reading. Pushing his glasses further up his the crooked bridge of his nose, Barry hunches into it, pretending to read but fully listening.

The man is switching between channels hectically, barking an order into one before demanding information from another. Often, he runs his hand from the smart circle of beard around his mouth before pushing it through his hair, which in turns pulls black locks from the low ponytail they're styled it in. Every conversation is gibberish Barry doesn’t have enough insight to follow, but one sparks his interest.

In this one, the man smooths his voice into a calm cadence as he comforts whoever’s on the other side. For this person, the man glances down at his map and gives directions leading back to Phandalin all while inserting more questions about Brian’s fate. “Once you hit the fork, take a left. It’ll only be a hundred or so more yards until you hit the outskirts of town,” the man says. He listens to whoever’s on the other side for a moment. “And repeat that to me: he used the dwarf’s blood to open the vault?”

Barry holds his breath. There’s no way it’s the same vault he’s planning on going to, but there can’t be more than one vault that can only be opened by the blood of one very specific dwarvian clan. Barry chews on his lip. There’s a lot of conclusions he’ll have to jump to, but if there’s one thing in that vault that can make this so-called Brian go berserk…

Barry slams his book shut, then tosses it aside. Leaving his sack on the bench, Barry rushes to stand, trips over his own feet in the process, and struts towards the man as calmly as possible. “Hey, excuse me?”

“You found a _what—“_ The man jumps and shoves the stone out of sight like a child being caught with an extra cookie. He stands a little straight, towering over an already short Barry as he tries to look natural. He gives Barry a look up and down, and yeah. He notices the red denim. “Uh, yeah?”

Barry sticks out his hand and bullshits. “Hi, I’m Professor Hallwinter from the Neverwinter University for Magics. I’m with the arcana department and I’ve been doing research on any magical objects in the area—”

The man holds up a hand. “Look, dude. I’m sorry. But I _really_ don’t have the time for this right now.”

“There’s an…” He’s sure saying _artefact_ will cause nothing but static. He shrugs. “ _Item_ I’m looking for. A gauntlet, perhaps?”

The man stares at him. Then his hand reaches for the sword at his side.

“Shit.” Barry starts channeling his magic as he hears the scratch of a blade being drawn from its sheath. It’s a one-handed sword, yet the man holds it in both hands. His feet shuffle to reach some kind of offensive stance, but the man is too nervous to do it right.

The man’s stone of farspeech crackles to life as a feminine voice breaks through. “Captain! He’s heading towards Phandalin! Get out of there, now!”

The sword drops to the ground.

The man, Captain, manages to get paler as he takes a slow step back. His eyes dart around the village as he sees all the citizens of Phandalin milling about, accomplishing their afternoon chores. He stumbles back more until the back of his legs hit the wall of the well. Barry lets his magic dissipate, letting his hands fall harmlessly back to his side once again. “Oh gods,” he says, glancing around the town. Over the line of roofs, he can barely see a trail of smoke wafting through the air.

He found where Lup went all those years ago, but now her artefact has been released from the seal she worked so hard to find. “Fuck!” He needs to tell the others. Davenport, Lucretia—whoever can help and be here five minutes ago. Barry turns and sees where his sack is, ready to dart to it and grab his own stone of farpseech, when a heavy weight barrels into him.

He crashes to the ground, glasses clanking off to the side as a pair of knees trap each side of his waist. He wheezes as his lungs struggle to get any kind of air in him that isn’t filled with dust. The blade of a very sharp sword comes down a hair’s width from the tip of his nose and Barry can see his blurry face in the metal. “The Phoenix Fire Gauntlet,” the captain spits, ignoring the way Phandalin’s citizens exclaim their fear. “How do we stop it?”

Barry lifts his head, coughing. “The _what?”_

Captain drags the sword in a shakey line so that the blade is pressed as close to Barry’s cheek as he can without breaking skin. “How do we stop it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t make that one!”

Captain stares at him, mouth open in shock. “You made the other Grand Relics?”

“You’re calling them _whatnow_?” As he yells, Barry suddenly understands—in their plan to erase knowledge of the artefacts from the world, he and his family overlooked one loophole. Fisher’s magic may erase knowledge from the world, but that does not mean that new knowledge can't replace it. The people of Faerun will never understand that these artefacts contain something called the Light of Creation, and that the crew of the _Starblaster_ crafted them. They might not even be able to comprehend what the artefacts are capable of.

But they can give the artefacts a new name and pass information along that way. Nothing can stop them from doing that.

“Captain!” The fact that it’s a female voice who yells it shakes Barry to the core. He’s not sure why until he feels the man pinning him to the ground grow tense once again. The person the captain had to guide back to Phandalin; this is her and she’s a towering orc.

As she runs through the village square, her trunk legs kick loads of dust into the air that stick to the sweat covering her green skin. Her muscles seem to burst from her clothes, and gell keeps her short hair spiked in a cool style. The smell of smoke is thick in the air and the people around them are starting to stir with worry, whispering among themselves about a forest fire and the orc running from it. Barry hears none of this. All he can see is the purple umbrella with a hooked handle hanging from the utility belt strapped to her hips.

Lup’s umbra staff.

“Killian, get out of here,” Captain orders, finally pulling his sword away from Barry’s face.

Barry stares. “Where did you get that umbrella—” Captain grabs a fistful of his hair and slams his face into the dirt. An intense pain that’s nowhere near the agony of dying shoots through Barry’s face as a metallic taste fills his mouth. At least he hears the captain hiss and ramble off apologies about not knowing his own strength. He's not a total lost cause.

Killian looks down at Barry, processes the fact that he’s there for a moment, before looking back at her captain. “Brian’s going to be here any moment and we have to think of a way to stop him—”

“You can’t,” Barry says into the ground. A moment later, the captain lifts his face back up. Blood trickles from his nose, leaving a deep red trail over his mouth and chin. The captains winces and apologizes again. “They’re made to be used. It’s the hunger of man. I don’t think there’s ever been anyone who’s resisted their thrall.”

Horror masks her features. Killian grits her teeth, and her tusk press into her upper lip. “I don’t believe it,” she sneers. She jerks her head towards the approaching column of smoke, and through the blurr of his bad vision, Barry notices a pair of headphones over her ears. Why does she need those? With stones of farspeech around, this plane hasn’t found a reason to invent those yet. It occurs to Barry then that there’s a similar pair around the captain’s neck. Interesting.

“Do you think we can somehow talk Brian down?” Killian asks.

When the captain doesn’t say anything, Barry sticks his glasses back on (a huge crack splices the left lense in two) and turns to her. “That umbrella,” he says, causing her eyes to narrow. “Where did you get it?”

The smoke looms ever closer. The captain’s head jerks towards it.

An explosion. The captain presses Barry closer to the dirt, this time in order to keep himself somewhat pinned in place as the force of it blasts through the air. It's only for an instant, but it sends rocks and litter scrapping through every inch of exposed skin. Barry groans as he struggles to lift his head once again. He catches sight of Killian prostrated for a moment before picking herself off the ground—her green skin glowing from the blaze of orange flames.

On the other side of the two square—where screams accompany the sheer destruction of half of Phandalin—hovers a spindly drow. His eyes glow as flames burst from every seam on his body. All the while, he cackles in glee as the world around him burns.

The captain lunges to his feet, abandoning Barry as he runs to Killian’s side. He holds out his sword in his fake-offensive pose as Killian aims her crossbow at him as well. “Brian, you need to stop!” he yells. “Resist it! I know you can!”

Barry struggles to his feet, feeling the danger swirl in his veins. “You can’t…”

“Don’t make me shoot you!” Killian shouts.

Barry feels every heave in his chest as smoke wafts into his lungs. He coughs and braces himself at the edge of the well. Holding himself upright, he scans the town. He can hear the screams and cries, yet seeing the actual civilians run in terror from the gauntlet and the monster he created breaks something deep within his chest.

And Brian’s only laughing as he grows ever brighter. Barry feels magic shift in the air, draining from the world and concentrating tightly around the possessed drow. Growing tighter and tighter—

He’s going to blow, Barry realizes. This time it’ll be a supernova.

“C'mon! Think of your fiancé! Resist it!” The captain shouts again.

Barry reacts.

He doesn’t know what spell he casts. When you have only a moment to react, all but a spell’s purpose leaves you. Whatever it is, he casts it and finds himself propelled towards the well as magic shaped into a hand grabs the captain and Killian.

He sees the start of the explosion—how the fire unfurls outwards in a lavish wave. He sees Brian all but disappear into the flames until a bolt leaves Killian’s bow.

It soars. Barry adds a spell to make sure her aim is true, but he doesn’t get to see the results as his world narrows to the circle of smokey sky seen from inside the well.

He’s falling, then he’s not.

The small of his back strikes the ground—something _cracks—_ and he lets out a horrible scream. _This_ is a pain he’s never felt before, and it radiates through his body in an instant. He can’t feel his legs.

The back of his head hits next. His vision swims.

He’s barely conscious enough to keep his spell going, dragging the captain and Killian to the bottom of the well without dropping them. As his sight flickers in and out, he feels the orc’s barely contained anger and the man’s stony eyes when he finally releases the spell. The umbrella hangs from the orc’s belt and Barry wants nothing more than to at least touch it.

The first sign of Lup he’s seen, and it’s right there.

Barry lifts his hand towards it, but the world above them roars as a heat so intense he can feel it thirty feet down passes above them.

There are screams too horrible to hear.

Then there is a silence too horrible to bear.

Barry doesn’t hear that, though. His mind focuses on the umbrella stuck to Killian’s side. He reaches for the ebony handle and finds his strength leave him. So he stares, blinking in and out as he just _looks_ at the first sign of Lup he’s seen in a decade.

His hand _thunks_ to the ground. All strength leaves him. He can’t move. His lids fall shut, and he prays that the cycle will reset soon.

Then he’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this totally didn't come out the day after the last chapter. I'm real sorry about that folks. I got a little busy with family and work, plus I wasn't sure whether I was going to actually write this chapter or not. I was playing with the idea of letting the next chapter just start with news of Phandalin's destruction and news of Barry's disappearance, but with everything else I'm keeping you guys in the dark about, it seemed like overkill. At least you don't know who the captain is yet!
> 
> ((And I swear the Hunger is coming next chapter. I haven't forgotten about that part of the summary yet))
> 
> Also I hope Barry's explanation of the voidfish's loophole makes sense. We kinda see how it works in canon with Here There Be Gremblins and the boys coming to understand what the gauntlet does from first hand experience. I think we always overestimate how effective Fisher's power is, especially when Magnus could still learn that he was a Red Robe without being inoculated. There are #hacks and I love it.
> 
> Also the feedback from last chapter was amazing! I didn't think so many people were going to like this! I'm actually really speechless about this whole thing and, like, feeling the sweet pressure to make this a good one. I really hope I can keep it up for you guys, especially since writing this is a lot of fun. I hope I can make you guys proud! 
> 
> See you next time! 
> 
> PS: my tumblr is miamaroo. Come on over and see how I kinda post but not really.


	3. In Which the Burnsides Celebrate Midsummer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus, Julia, and their kid go to the Midsummer festival. It's a normal holiday until it's not.

Magnus turns the mask in his hands. He's spent the past month working on it, perfecting the grooves and curves in the wood, staining it a rich brown and setting it with a gloss. He runs his hands over each detail, almost hoping to find some imperfection.

He loves the holidays, but the moments leading up to the festivities always leave him anxious. It’s when he starts to think too hard about the family he lost and the hundred years he lived. He wonders where Taako is and if he ever found Lup. He hopes Davenport and Merle will be fine until he can make a trip to the coast to see them. When he goes to church, he prays that Barry will one day stop feeling guilty. He thinks back to Lucretia’s monthly letters and finds himself missing her dearly. And, when he looks upon the expanse of this land, he aches for his destroyed home far away on the other side of the cosmos.

Magnus puts the mask aside. He picks up the fur cape he sewed last night and checks the stitches—fingers prodding while his mind drifts. He makes a mental note to take some of the local boys in town to help him chop down more wood. Julia said she ordered more coal for the hearth, but she tends to hyper focus on one task and forgets to do another. It won’t hurt to double check.

When he places it down, he hears a soft, howled note. He smiles and turns to the tank that encompasses the four walls of his office.

Fisher floats in the water, Junior at its side. They pass a few carved ducks between them. Magnus laughs and places a hand on the glass. “Yeah,” he says, “I’ll get you some food.”

From a drawer of his desk, he pulls out a long sheet of paper much like the other hundred copies stacked haphazardly on top of one another. Each one is print in meticulous pencil the tune to fantasy ABBA song so catchy it drives Magnus mad. The song used to be mega popular until Davenport helped him figure out a way to feed Fisher and his kid without destroying the entire plane’s well of knowledge. All he has to do is take the song, scratch out one of its hundreds of notes, and replace it with a different one. Sure, the world will now forever be without this one really catchy fantasy ABBA song and any one-note variations it may have, but it keeps Fisher and Junior fed and Magnus free from any obnoxious ear worms. It’s a win-win situation.

Magnus adjusts one of the notes before throwing the sheet into the tank. Fisher and Junior consume it greedily, singing out a few appreciative notes. Magnus can tell they’re bored with getting near-exact copies of the same information for every meal, but it’s the best he can do. At least he can keep them happy with carved ducks and all the affection in the world.

He places a hand on the tank and watches Fisher mime him with a tentacle.

These past twelve years have been tough, but it’s been the best of his life.

Kalen came back to try to destroy Raven’s Roost. He blew up the supports keeping the Craftsmen Corridor bound to the side of the mountain, sending his home and the lovely gazebo deep into the chasms surrounding the town. Steven died. Julia would have too, but she decided at the last minute to put her own projects on hold and join Magnus on his trip to Neverwinter. At the time, Barry had been working as a professor there and she wanted the opportunity to know Magnus’s side of the family a little better. It was an on-the-spot decision that saved her life, one Magnus thinks about constantly.

For three years after that, Magnus and Julia traveled the land together in search of Kalen. When they found him, they killed him. In Magnus’s head, there was no way around it, not when they already gave him an opportunity to change his ways. He knows it haunts Julia, and often he soothes her through the night. He wonders what happened to him that made him so nonplussed, but he doesn’t linger.

Magnus doesn’t linger.

Except, maybe, when it comes to Stevie.

He picks up the cape and mask, says goodbye to his voidfishes, and leaves his workshop. Or at least, he tries to. He’s barely two steps out when Stevie jumps onto him, hanging off his arm and she laughs. “Is it ready? Is it ready?” she shouts.

He laughs and raises his arm up, watching his ten year old daughter squeal as she swings her legs back and forth. “Hmmm, I don’t know. Did you order a frog costume?”

Stevie lets go, landing solidly on her feet. She sticks her fists on her hips and makes a face. “C’mon, Pops. It’s not a Power Frog.”

Magnus scratches his sideburns. “Well, _hmmmm_ … is it a bunny?”

“ _Pops_!” She throws her head back as she whines, her wild curls dancing on her back. She’s the perfect mix between him and Julia—his bright eyes, her dimples, his energy, and her creativity. A perfect daughter in every regard with a cool dad and an even cooler mom.

Magnus walks past her, heading towards the stairs to their apartment above the workshop. “Honey?” he calls upwards. “What did Stevie want to dress up as again?”

From the room behind the door on top of the stairs, Julia immediately shoots back, “Power Duck.”

Stevie squawks, and he can’t hold back a laugh.

Upstairs, Julia is in the kitchen, sewing the last bits of her own costume at the table he made. Every year, they dress up as each other for the Midsummer Festival. She saves some of his old work shirts and pants and mends them down to her size. He just steals her clothes the day of and makes up for any inevitable rips and tears it by making her a new and even better dress.

She holds the threaded needle away from the worn shirt and cuts it off with her teeth. “I’m looking rather masculine this year,” she says without sparing him a glance.

“I’ll change once Stevie realizes her costume is ready,” he replies.

On cue, his little girl finishes barreling up the stairs and takes a stance in front of him—legs wide and arms akimbo, cheeks puffed with anger. Everyone in this part of Raven’s Roost calls it her Burnsides Stance. “Is it a Power Bear?” she demands.

Magnus smiles and kneels to her height. She just went through a growth spurt so it’s more of a squat. He hates to think that she’s bound to have a few more, if his and Julia’s heights are anything to go by. “Of course, bear cub.” He ruffles her hair before holding out the cape and mask.

Stevie gaps in delight, snatching them before he could take them back. She sprints to her room, promising she’ll be ready in five minutes tops, so they better be as well. “If we miss the eclipse’s starting bells, I’m getting new parents!”

Julia watches her go, shaking her head when the door slams shut. “Gods, what a kid.”

He shrugs. “She takes after you.”

“Thank Istus for that. If she had any more alien in her, she’d be uncontrollable.”

He drapes himself over her shoulders, chuckling as he presses his face into her hair. Despite not working in the shop today, she smells like soot and sweat. She always does, and it’s one on a long list of things he adores about her. No matter what, she never stops being Julia. “Yeah, but I’m your alien so it’s okay.”

“My one and only space boy.” She raises a hand a holds his arm and they stay like that for a long moment.

Magnus asks, “Did I tell you today that I love you?”

“This morning, but I think you can spare to say it more.”

“I love you,” he says between kisses, starting at her scalp, then trailing downwards. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He gets her ear and cheek before gently kissing her neck. He feels her pulse on his lips. He feels her smile.

She leans her head into his. “What are you thinking about?”

“How much I love you.”

“And?”

“And Stevie. Love her.”

“Is that all?”

He presses his face into the crook of her neck and breathes in. Soot and sweat—completely Julia. “The usual holiday blues.”

“Hey, look at me.” Her voice is soft and comforting, and he wishes he could stay nestled in her shoulder forever. But her hands, calloused like his, touch the sides of his face and guide him away. She holds him in place—their foreheads touching, their eyes boring into each other. She says nothing, but her eyes give him the comfort he craves and the understanding he needs.

They stay like that for a long moment.

She breathes in and he breathes out.

“I wish there’s something I can do,” Julia says at last. “Just… _anything_. Anything to make it better.”

He closes his eyes. “I love you, Jules.”

She pecks his lips. “Same.”

There’s a crash coming from Stevie’s room, but that’s not unusual. “I’m okay!” she shouts from behind her door as another crash sounds.

Magnus sighs and finally breaks from his wife. “Ten gold pieces says it’s the dresser.”

“You nailed that to the floor last week,” Julia replies, returning back to her needle work. One of her millions of curls breaks from the bandana around her head, springing in front of her nose. She scowls and blows it away.

He huffs. “This is Stevie we’re talking about. If there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Julia laughs.

* * *

No one has to ask Stevie if she thought her parents took forever to get ready. The moment she, Julia, and Magnus leave through the front doors of the Hammer and Tongs, she yells it out to anyone who will listen. “I was ready thirty minutes ago!” she tells the glassmaker when the poor lady tries to compliment her costume. She waves her eclipse goggles in the air like a sword until Magnus takes it from her hands with a promise to keep it safe. “Those two—” She points at her crossdressing parents. “—held me up!”

With the death of Governor Kalen, Raven’s Roost saw the return of its populations. Families whose craft has defined them for generations returned in troves until, a scare decade later, there’s no sign of any attack ever happening. Still, there's a unspeakable scar that mars Raven's Roost, one that will linger in its culture for decades to come. Maybe due to this lingering fear, there's a kind of pure excitement that drenches the Midsummer Festival, one that can only come from a population well acquainted with hardship. There are games to be played, food to eat, and dances to be held. Throngs of costumed people fill the tight streets as masked person and painted face greet each other like family. Today is the day to forget the past and embrace the levity of the future season of growth and eventual harvest.

Magnus wears one of Julia’s old dresses—old stockings and bandana included. His wife copies his gait as she trucks around in an old pair of work pants, showing to anyone she vaguely knows the fake sideburns she glued to her face. They hold hands and wave at their neighbors as Stevie bounds in front of them, trying to sneak up on anyone who looks vulnerable. She holds her hands up like claws and lets out the fiercest roar she can muster. She earns more laughs than scares, but she doesn’t seem to care.

Magnus watches her with a smile. On one of the other planes he visited in his youth (he couldn’t remember what cycle it was), there was a civilization of people who had a device that could record moments. He wants one now so that he can tuck away this image forever.

Stevie gasps. “There’s a ring toss booth!”

“There’s always—” Stevie runs off before Julia can finish. “Shit.”

They catch up to her quick enough. Stevie bounces on her heels as she waits in line, babbling to some classmate about the greater intricacies of her costume. Stevie holds out her cloak like a wing, as if the extra span will make her more grand than the duke of Neverwinter. “The Power Bear is a fierce creature of strength and my dad fought it!” she declares while her classmate (little Piper, if Magnus's memory serves him right) gawks in a mixture of confusion and fear.

Little Piper’s dad—Gregor? Geoffrey?— is standing behind her and smiles when he sees the Burnsides trot up to them. “Lost your kid?” he jokes with a flashy grin. Magnus feels Julia roll her eyes. Everyone knows that he’s trying to start a campaign to take one of the seats in the Raven’s Roost City Council, but his politics are a little too close to a certain governor the town worked their asses off trying to coop. Magnus doesn't even think he outright disapproved of Kalen until it became obvious they were going to win the rebellion.

On any other day, Julia would grill Piper’s dad (whatever his name is) on all of his political opinions, but it’s a holiday and she has some semblance of tack. “I almost didn’t see you there, Gansey,” she says, ignoring the way Magnus lights up because _of course his name is Gansey._ “Your Kalen costume is fantastic. You almost look like the real thing.”

Gansey chokes and Magnus proceeds to lose his shit.

It’s amazing how the sly smile doesn’t leave Julia’s face as Gansey adjusts his tie and stands a little straight. “Well, I wanted to go as the scariest thing possible. It’s nice to see Stephanie—”

“Stevie.”

“—is still telling her made up stories. I didn’t know you’ve been to a planet populated by nothing but animals, Magnus.”

Magnus feels a spark of anger twitch under his veins. He can’t stop Stevie from retelling the stories of his adventures across the planes of reality, but he also can’t stand how most people treat it like a big joke. When he uses his brain, he knows that it’s easier to not have to explain to everyone how he’s from a different plane, but it still makes him want to pound his chest and scream about all he and his family had to sacrifice.

Julia fits her hand into his, holding him back before he rushes in. “Stevie’s smart. I’m sure Piper will catch up to her soon.” Gansey starts protesting again, but Julia pays him no heed. “Magnus dear, can you go get me some funnel cake? I forgot to eat lunch.”

Magnus glares at her for a moment, asking without words if he can get a zinger in too.

Julia sends him one back, giving him a firm no.

He sighs. “Alright.” He reaches down to where Stevie is still talking Piper’s head off and ruffles his hand in her curls. “How about your cool dad picks you up a treat too? What sounds good, bear cub?”

Stevie pauses in the middle of her rant, placing a hand under her masked chin as she thinks about it. “Unicorn dick!”

“Oh Pan who taught you that?” he says as Julia hollers with laughter and Gansey looks even more scandalized. “You’re getting stern talk from your mother on all the reasons why we don’t eat a unicorn’s you-know-what.” He meet her eyes to confirm and, yes that’s there, but her hazel iris are demanding he bolts before Gansey starts a lecture on how poorly they’re raising their daughter.

A ball of doubt fills his gut. Maybe, beneath all the good times and the struggles they went through to get here, they really are doing a bad job.

He pushes the thought out of his head, deciding to deal with it when it comes up. Right now, he’s going to enjoy his Midsummer Festival and get the best funnel cake for the greatest wife and daughter ever and only the force of Pan himself will stop him.

As he walks away, another unfortunate thought surfaces to the forefront of his mind, one that says he sounds more and more like Merle with each passing year. He hates it. Not to bash Merle or anything, but the idea of becoming a plant-loving cleric is not a pleasant one.

The line to Marigold’s funnel cake stand is long, but that’s what happens when the best baker in town gets in on the seasonal fun. He files in behind the rest. He’s there for hardly a minute, long enough to think that maybe he's starting to sound like Davenport instead (which really isn’t that bad of a future all things considered), when he notices the cluster of craftsmen off to the side. They’re the people who own the other shops in the corridor. Carson, the clockmaker, has a newspaper in his hand that everyone from the shoemaker to the scribe jabs a finger at. The group shifts uncomfortably. Even the silversmith as a hand over his mouth in absolute horror.

Magnus turns to the person behind him, asks them to hold his spot, before jogging up to the group. “Hey, what seems to be the problem?” he asks.

Immediately, Sydney has his elf hands on his bicep. “Phandalin, Burnsides. It’s in the papers.”

Magnus blinks, feeling as though he's already missed half the conversation. “Wha—”

“Gone,” chimes Chester the dwarf. “Ashes, from what I hear.”

Carson shoves the paper at him, and finally Magnus sees the headline: _Phandalin Goes Up In Flames; No Survivors_. For emphasis, the illustrator drew a picture of nothing. A chill goes up his arm as he hands it back. “That’s, uh. That's horrible.”

“The kid I sent to scout the ruins didn’t come back until today, so it’s not in print yet,” says Lacey of the Raven Roost Times. She's a strange mixture of orc and some other race she refuses to disclose. Either way, she has the bulging muscles capable of carrying the weight of the only newspaper for leagues. “But it’s true. The entire town’s just gone. There’s no buildings, no bones, no nothing. Just…” She trails off with a vague gesture.

“Well?” Sydney jabs her side. “Tell him!”

“It sounds impossible, and I wouldn’t be saying it if my best kid didn’t see it for himself, but it’s like whatever fire struck the town was so hot it turned it into glass.”

Magnus’s stomach drops. Sweat pricks at the back of his neck as his blood slows to a creeping crawl. He swallows. He feels his Adam’s apple bob, then get stuck. “Is… was it black glass?” he asks.

“Actually, yeah,” Lacey says. “A circle of black glass.”

Carson leans in, a conspiratorial hand at the side of his face, oblivious to the horror marring Magnus’s. “So what do you think did it? A dragon? Some warlock?”

“Don’t be silly,” Sydney replies. “No warlock’s strong enough to do something like that.”

“So a dragon.”

Magnus steps back. “I... I need to grab cake for my girls.” His voice is hollow, distant behind all the screaming horror in his head. He wants to scream and punch something, but here are the dwarfs, humans, and others who he sees every day. Guilt may blaze like a fiery crest on his skin, but he didn’t want them to know. They can’t ever know about the hand he played in the demise of Phandalin.

An entire town, destroyed.

_Another town gone._

He staggers away. Some semblance of functionality returns to him in the ten steps back to his spot in line. He finds a voice to thank the person who saved his spot, then another to ask Marigold for her best funnel cake. When he makes it back to Julia and Stevie, grease-laden desert in hand, the sight of Gansey and his daughter is gone. Replacing it is his little girl throwing terrible after terrible shot. Each of her rings hit the side of the too small poles before bouncing in the opposite direction. Stevie crosses her arms over her chest as

Julia laughs. She spies Magnus from the corner of her eye. With the squeeze of the shoulder, she tells their daughter, “Maybe if you ask your dad nice enough, he’ll win you a prize.”

When Julia turns to face him fully, her face falls. Her eyes jump to each crease in his face as if she can pick apart his aura and tell that something’s wrong, something not involving Gansey and family honor.

His hands turn into fist, grip so strong that his knuckles go white. He’s ruining the holiday. Today is supposed to be about being a family with his two favorite girls and he’s ruining it. He tries a smile, but the frown on Julia’s face only deepens. “What’s wrong?” she asks, voice barely loud enough to break over the din of the festival.

He glances down at Stevie and sees her staring at a stuffed octopus half her size. He finally meets Julia’s eyes. “Later.”

“Magnus—”

“Later, Jules. I…” He stops, taking a moment to curb his frustration. “It’s bad news. From back then. And it’s a lot.” He holds out the funnel cake. After a moment of glaring, Julia takes it. “Let’s just have fun right now.”

Julia opens and closes her mouth, and he can see her work to push back her own frustration. Steven used to say that she and Magnus were fun house images of each other—the same habits and spirit, just stretched and squished at different places. After a moment, Julia relaxes her shoulders. “Okay. Tonight, though. Before bed.”

Magnus smiles. “Promise.”

She smiles back.

He bends down to Stevie, placing a hand on her cloaked shoulder and pointing a finger at the stuffed animal. “So that’s what we’re gonna win, right?”

The town bells ring. It’s not the chimes that signal the beginning of the yearly eclipse over Raven’s Roost. These are the formality, the ones that Stevie was so determine to beat. These tell the citizens that the eclipse is starting on the other side of Faerun where the rotation of the planet will eventually drag it over to them. They’re loud and succinct. A few teenagers with nothing better to do hoot and holler at it, causing a few grandparents to curse the lack of respect.

Magnus has the ring in his hand, aiming it close to his scarred eye as he lines it up with the distant pole. “It takes precision, Stevie,” he says. “You gotta get it lined up and then just go for it.” He tosses it. Magnus watches as it spins through the air.

The chimes of the bells leave the air and replacing it is a sudden, deafening shriek.

Magnus cries out as pain fills his ear drums. He jams his hands over his ears, grimacing as he feels his whole body shudder. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Stevie stand with eyes blown open, struck still in absolute horror. Then she starts to sway.

He lunges, barely wrapping an arm around her when she falls. “Stevie!”

His daughter is only one of many who fall. All around them, residents of Raven’s Roost are either prostrated on the ground or struggling to stay conscious. There’s other booms and crashes as many give up and fall into unconsciousness. Some hit a ledge or booth on the way down. Other piles on top of each other like a mass burial. Coin purses are dropped and glass breaks.

Stevie’s limp in his arms—warm, but loose like a doll. Unconscious. Her head rolls to the side. Her neck seems unnaturally long. He pulls her close, pressing his hand to every part of her in search of something wrong. His mind is blank, every cell in his brain on fire with panic. “What do I do?” He doesn’t realize he’s babbling until he hears his own voice over the din. He doesn’t even realize he’s trying to talk to Julia until he looks up and sees her still standing.

The shriek continues unending and it makes Magnus’s mind muddle.

He watches for a paralyzing moment as Julia grips the banister of the booth, a hand on her forehead as she stares unblinkingly at the ground. Her mouth is open in a sick way, and her hair breaks out of her bandana. For a stilting moment, all Magnus can do is stare. He’s never seen her so defenseless. Not during the rebellion, not while hunting Kalen. At her father’s funeral, her tears were filled with fire. She’s strong, always stronger than him. Even in sleep, she seems ready to rupture.

This is not that.

“Julia!” He surges to his feet, curling Stevie to his chest as he gets his free arm around his wife.

Her legs give out, but he feels her fist his dress as she struggles to remain upright. “Magnus…” She winces as a shadow falls over the land. The world is dark, but it’s not with cloud or an eclipse. It’s a sickly black that shimmers under an invisible light as it rolls over the horizon. He can see the pain in her eyes as she tries to yell louder than the murderous sound. “Magnus, what’s going on?”

Magnus moves like a machine, keeping her and Stevie close as he turns his face towards the sky. He feels his dress whip as the wind picks up and howls.

Magnus feels himself at the edge of an uncertain fate, one that is all too familiar.

Not for the first time, he’s afraid.

The eyes open, and Magnus feels something within plummet and break. “No!”

There’s hundreds of them, sickly and bright as their gazes—the Hunger’s gaze—skirt over the land of Faerun, searching for the Light of Creation. Magnus stares, holding Stevie closer and keeping a protective arm around Julia. He feels her tremble and gasp as she watches the Hunger’s scouts stare straight back at her. He tries to be strong, but he can feel what little strength he has left leave him. This isn’t supposed to be happening. This is why they made those stupid artefacts. What was the point of everything if this thing is still going to come and destroy it all?

There are more eyes in the sky than there are stars, and each one is just a little different. A few are human-like, but others are from goats or tieflings or other creatures. One with a cat’s pupil is directly above Magnus—a cruel black slit in a nauseous yellow pool that scans the mountainous town. Magnus snarls, gnashing his teeth like a feral dog. He has a speech in his head about heroism and winning at the end of the day, but all that comes out of him is a wordless scream.

The eye stops, then looks directly at him.

“I’m not letting you destroy this world!” he roars. He feels Julia’s eyes on him, but he isn’t sure he can meet them. “Not this time! You’re not going to win! I’m going to destroy you!”

The eye blinks. The Hunger spares him no real response, but the sky above Raven’s Roost rumbles in what can only be called silent laughter.

Magnus screams again.

Then the Hunger retracts. It’s gone as quickly as it came—the sky an idyllic blue with the sun beaming brightly once more. With it, the cacophonous noise finally end, leaving his ears ringing in agony.

As Magnus stands in the center of Raven’s Roost with his daughter in his arms and his wife at his side, a realization equally terrible in its certainty and familiarity comes to him.

One year.

They have one year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! The chapter in which the Hunger finally makes its appearance. Check that one off the list. 
> 
> This chapter took a lot of rewriting on my part since I just wanted to make sure the dynamics between Magnus, Julia, and Stevie is made clear. I wanted to show that Magnus and Julia are a great couple, but they have very realistic hiccups along the way. Stevie's still a bit of a caricature of the rascal child right now, but I'm going to try my best to make sure she's gets more attention in the future.
> 
> Thank you everyone who's been just showing their support for this. I know I said this last time, but I'm still endlessly amazed that so many people actually really like this. I'm going to try my best to live up to whatever expectations you have for this story! 
> 
> That being said, next chapter might take a little longer to get to since this is a very stressful week coming up, complete with family stuff and deadlines I've been putting off. I'll do my best to keep you all updated on my tumblr on an estimated release date. Thank you in advance for your patience! 
> 
> Thank you for reading. See you next time!


	4. In Which Julia and Magnus Disagree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Hunger’s brief appearance. Julia takes a stand, the Starblaster flies, and someone wakes up.

The world comes to a grinding stop. For an instant, every person on this plane of existence experiences the same horrific terror of the Hunger’s eyes bearing down upon them. Yet, as blood runs cold and heart beats still, none know for sure what exactly looms so hauntingly above. Paladins near Neverwinter advise Artemis Sterling of it being the warning of angry gods. A detective in Rockport turns his bespectacled face towards the eclipse—mouth drawn tight as the mystery builds. In Goldcliff, a race comes to a sudden stop. The shorter, masked woman lies unconscious as her taller partner comes to her aid. There is a worried family in Hogsbottom who doesn’t think much about it at all. They merely pick themselves back up and return to the urgency of their missing daughter.

But in Raven’s Roost, the Burnsides family limp their way through the carnage of a ruined festival—one step at a time as they trek back home. Although most are beginning to wake in a sluggish delirium, too hazy to fully comprehend the panic consuming those who stayed conscious, Magnus and Julia do not stop to help. Anyone can see that while their will to stand is a testament to their strength, they err on the thin line of defeat.

Julia is a mess, clutching her husband’s arm as she bears her unsteady weight into him. Her curls are everywhere—frazzled all around her in an exploding mass. She tries to keep her face stoic for the people she knows look up to her, but she can’t help the tremors that rack her bones. Magnus, meanwhile, transforms. He keeps Stevie nestled close to his chest, feeling her steady breaths as she lingers in unconsciousness. At first, right after the Hunger’s eyes disappeared, he felt his age. His eyes were heavy, and his body ached with a pain that resonated through every fiber woven in his muscles. But as he guides Julia through the twisting streets, edging closer and closer to the Hammer and Tongs, he builds back up.

He forces his back to straighten. His gait lengthens until he is confident in each stride. Remembering his security training from another life, he forces all emotions to leave his face. He remembers how his twenty year old self could never force a kind look off his visage, how his smile always beamed through like the double suns hanging in the sky. There were times during his century traveling where he could manage it for the sake of his family, but it never felt real.

Now his mouth is tight and his brows set evenly. It feels real.

Julia’s grip around his arm tightens. “Magnus.”

“Not now, Jules.”

“Is it… Was that thing the…” She presses her lips together to stop the words. “We should help.”

Magnus adjusts his hold on Stevie, swallowing down the sudden wave of guilt. “We will, just…”

“Stevie.”

“Yeah. Stevie.”

The roads seem to grow as they continue their uneasy march. They feel each pebble dig into their soles, each gust of wind punishing the fabric of their clothes. Yet when they finally see the Hammer and Tongs, it feels like there should be more to travel. A crowd of people stand outside of its doors—many fellow ex-rebels, a few artisans, a worrying amount of city council members. They all seem lost until they see Julia and Magnus down the street. Despite not being in any better shape, few seem ready to dash to them for help, but Julia holds up a hand to stop them.

So they watch as the Burnsides trudge to the front doors of the shop. Once Magnus is standing beneath the hanging sign he had lovingly carved so many years ago, the damn bursts.

“What’s going on?”

“Are whoever’s still unconscious ever going to wake up?”

“Should we alert the neighboring towns? The king?”

“What are we going to do?”

Magnus groans. “I don’t know!” he snaps. An immediate hush falls over the crowd. A few even step back. Never before has anyone seen this kind of anger on the man’s face. Magnus doesn’t think he’s felt this angry since the day he watched his home plane be swallowed by the Hunger. It’s infectious, latching tendrils around every part of his body until he swears he can’t breathe.

It is Julia’s grip that keeps him grounded. He glances down, expecting to see the calm visage of the woman who led a rebellion. Instead, her thick brows are furrowed as the exhausted lines beneath her eyes underline the spark of her frustration. “Later,” she growls.

She doesn’t wait for a response. With a push, she stumbles off of Magnus, taking the final few steps to the door. She catches herself on the shoulders of those who stand in her way before not only shoving them away, but swinging herself upright once more. She wraps her hands around the door’s handle, leaning against the wood. “Keys, space boy.”

Magnus blinks. Then he pushes past the familiar faces and pulls his keys from the pockets sewn into his dress. Finally, the crowd takes the hint and disperses.

Julia tries to walk herself through the threshold alone, but she sways in every which directions. Magnus rushes to help her. “That was good,” he says, getting her under his arm. It’s hardly more than a whisper, yet he means every word of it. “You’re amazing, Jules. So incredible.”

She hums a reply. It occurs to him a moment too late that it’s all she can manage.

Finally, they go inside.

* * *

 

 

The room they share is cozy—connected off the kitchen, opposite of Stevie’s door. A large bed fills most of the space with a few mismatched pieces of furniture shoved in whenever Magnus has the time to make them. Some of Lucretia’s old paintings hang on the wall, illuminated by the fresh sunlight streaming in from the far window. It’s opened a crack, and the yellow and green curtains framing them float in the invading breeze.

Magnus has to practically carry Julia the last few steps to the bed, but once her shins hit the side of the mattress, she gets a spark of energy. “Oh gods,” she moans. “Put me down.” When he doesn’t, she pries his fingers away and lets her legs go limp. She falls into the mattress in a relieved huff.

It’s a short lived one.

She turns over, taking the quilt laid at the bed’s end in the process. She watches her husband lay Stevie on the bed, making sure the pillow is perfect beneath the girl’s head. Julia draws herself up, scooting closer to her daughter. Wide-eyed, she brushes a hand down Stevie’s face. “How… what now?” she asks.

Magnus stares for a long moment, distant.

“Magnus,” Julia says.

He jolts back to her. “We wait. She should wake up soon. Maybe. I don’t know. Probably.”

She starts to pull her daughter into a hug, but then stops herself. “We can’t just wait. Call Merle. See if him and Davenport will come up and…”

His feet stomp on the floorboards as he moves to the other side of the room. Julia pushes her crazy curls out of her face, ready to demand his attention, when she sees that he’s at the window. He peers through the glass at an angle, lined so that whatever is outside can’t see him. After a moment, his hands fist the curtains. He yanks them shut, the metal rings scraping on the rod.

The pleasant sunlight streaming in disappears into nothing more than a slim line that splices the room in half. It cuts a white stripe down Julia’s face, just a tad off center. “Magnus,” she says.

“Davenport’ll call soon,” he says, moving to the other side of the bed. He kneels on the ground, and Julia has to crawl to him to see what he’s doing. He pulls out their old adventuring gear, brushing off the dust before opening the bags' flaps. The quilt swallows her as she repeats his name like a command, but nothing lights a spark on his face. He merely pulls out each piece of equipment, makes a note of its condition, before putting it back.

“Magnus, don’t do this right now.” Julia reaches out a hand, but he stands before she can touch the crown of his head. For a moment, she thinks he’s finally going to say something—anything—back.

Instead, he goes to the chest at the foot of the bed. It was one of the first pieces of furniture he carved for their new house and shop, and she had made the lock mechanism adorning its front. She watches him now turn the knob and pop it open, revealing the few remains of their life before Kalen destroyed the original Craftsmen Corridor. There’s a few singed family portraits, including the one Lucretia made them so long ago. Julia sees the last bits of painted wood from the gazeebo, and the broken porcelain her mom had left behind when she abandoned Steven.

And, beneath all that, is a red jacket.

Magnus had showed it to her once, back when it was a pristine crimson adorned with an official ranking and an organization’s patch. She had toyed with the gold buttons and rubbed the seams between the pads of her fingers, listening with rapt attention as Magnus talked for hours about who he is and where he comes from.

Kalen destroyed that uniform. The ends are a charred, tattered black that struggles to stay in one piece. A few buttons are gone. Mud stains the patch beyond the point of no return. The red that had burned so vividly into her memory of Magnus From Before is dulled, grayed from smoke and ash.

Magnus studies the jacket for a long moment, then pulls it on.

She can’t take it anymore. “So that was the Hunger back there.”

Finally she sees him pause, an arm stretched out as his other hand stalls, the jacket hanging limply. He takes a deep breath and finishes tugging it on. “Yeah. That was… that was it.”

She sits above him on the bed, while he kneels on the floor. Combined, their eyes are leveled with each other, able to bore straight into each other’s brown irises. This is where it gets tough—the knot in their relationship they always have to work around. They’re funhouse images of each other, yet they both react to bad news the same way. It’s a dance to attempt to listen to each other before trying to rush in and act. He’s better at listening, and she’s better at waiting.

Julia bows her head for a moment, her curls falling into a curtain around her. A cold wind swirls in her chest as the gravity of what has happened settles on her. “I thought it wasn’t going to come here,” she whispers. “You stopped it.”

Magnus swallows. “We hid.”

She looks at him, curls bouncing. “But it wasn’t supposed to come.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t know, Jules.” He wrings his hands. “Earlier, I heard that Phandalin’s just… gone. Just destroyed clear off the map. Our things did it. I know it.”

Julia is silent for a long moment. “But why now? It didn’t come during the whole war they caused. Why would one make it suddenly decide to pop in?”

Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s just that. We’ll figure it out, though.”

She tries for a smile, but it feels strained on her lips. She places her hand on his head instead, threading her fingers through his auburn hair. “Yes we will.”

“Oh no.” He surges up until his whole six-foot-plus-some looms above her. “No, no, no, no. You’re staying out of this.”

“Really?” Her eyes are relentless. “You’re really going to pull that move on me?”

“It’s going to be too dangerous and Stevie—”

“You know I can handle myself and we both know how to keep Stevie out of trouble.”

“Oh no. We’re not taking Stevie with us.” He streaks his finger through the air. “I’m drawing the line there.”

Huffing, Julia wraps her quilt tighter around her shoulders and matches him. She rises to her feet, unsteady on the soft mattress but nonetheless glaring him down. “And what makes you think I’m just going to sit around and watch my world get destroyed?”

“Think of Stevie, Julia!”

“I am!”

Magnus throws his arms into the air. “So what are we going to do? Just bring her onto the _Starblaster_ with us and say don’t touch anything? Our Stevie? _Hm_ , wonder how that’ll turn out!”

Julia groans. “You’re being stubborn!”

“So what? You—”

“Let me help you!” It hits her suddenly that this is the first time they’ve ever yelled at each other. They’ve had their share of arguments in the past, but they’ve always made sure to never raise their voices. Yet, here they are: standing eye to eye as they shout their defenses. Julia presses her lips together, feeling her fingers dig into the fabric of the quilt.

“This is our home, Magnus,” she says, much quieter this time. The change makes him flinch. “I fought for it by your side once and I’m going to do it again—with or without you. So if you think I’m just going to let you waltz off and probably get yourself killed doing something you think is heroic, you have another thing coming.”

He takes a deep breath. “It’s not like I’ll be off by myself,” he says, calmer this time. “It’ll be me and the old gang. We’ll solve this before Candlenights season hits.”

“And you want me to wait here.”

“This is our literal job, Julia. We’ve all seen what this thing is capable of doing.” He reaches out and, with a consenting nod from her, he cups her cheeks. His palms give off a gentle heat that soothes her aching head. “If anything were to happen to you or Stevie, I don’t think I could live with myself. It would break me.”

She leans into his touch, but her eyes blaze. “And if anything happened to you, don’t you think it would break me too?”

He doesn’t reply. He can’t even meet her gaze, lowering his head to hide his face.

“I haven’t traveled the infinite realities for a century,” she says. “That’s not my story. But I’m a fighter. I have a husband I love and I daughter I would die for. Whatever you think is going to happen out there, I can handle it. What you’re doing is important, but it doesn’t have to exclude your family. We’re a team. Let us be there for you like you’ve been there for us. Please.”

He hugs her.

Her feet are off the bed and in the air, her weight lifted high in the air as his arms envelop her. She feels the quilt fall to the ground and the sheer warmth radiating off his skin. Her chin digs into his shoulder until she moves and presses her face into the crook of his neck. Stubble scratches her cheeks and it’s a comfort that reminds her of everything that is him. Her arms are around his neck, and she just wishes that he could understand how scare she is, how she’ll only continue being scared unless he lets her help.

But he’s Magnus. He already knows that about her. And, she thinks, that’s what scares him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, breath dancing around her ear.

Before he could finish the thought, she hushes. “No, no. Honey, I’m sorry,” she says into his skin. “You’re in pain and I’m sorry. Just please. Please let me help you.”

He pulls away for a moment. Wet lines trail down his face. She lifts herself upwards and presses her forehead to his.

Gulping, he nods. “Okay.” And he pulls her back into the crushing hug.

They stay like that for a long time, feeling their hearts race against each other’s breast.

Then Magnus’s stone of farspeech beeps. It’s soft, coming from the drawer of his nightstand, but it still cuts through the air. Magnus and Julia pull apart, looking at the source of the sound before back at each other. Not a word is spoken, yet they move in perfect synchronicity as Magnus places Julia back on the bed before going to grab it. He takes the place next to her, the mattress sinking under his weight.

He meets her eyes, nods, then answers it. “Yes?”

Davenport’s voice filters through. “Magnus, is that you?”

“The one and only.”

They can hear how Davenport nods and fumbles with how to respond. “Okay… how are you doing? Are you okay? Did you see—”

“Yeah, Capitan.” Julia’s never heard him refer to Davenport so formally and, now that she’s really looking at him, she realizes that she’s also never seen him wear his IPRE uniform before. It’s always been an item to hold and explain, never to be worn again. “I saw it.”

There’s a noise on Davenport’s end, something between a sigh and a pained noise. “Okay. Good. We’re getting the _Starblaster_ into the air right now. We’re going to be grabbing Lucretia first, but we should be at Raven’s Roost by dusk.”

Julia slips her hand into Magnus’s, and he squeezes her tight. They lock eyes. He nods.

“The three of us will be ready,” Julia replies.

A pause. “Was that Julia and did I hear three?”

“I’m not leaving my family behind,” Magnus says.

Davenport’s sigh makes the magic cackle. “Gods, you Burnsides,” he says. “Is that really the best idea? She does know—”

“I am well aware of the risks, Captain,” Julia says. “You can add another fighter to the roster.”

Davenport grumbles. “I mean… alright. Fine. We’ll talk more about this later, but okay. Be ready for us at dusk.”

The semblance of a smile lifts Magnus’s face. “Roger that, Cap'n Port.”

The gnome clears his throat in a way that reminds Magnus of every team meeting he’s ever had to suffer through. “Anyway, I’m not sure if you would know anything about this, but I haven’t been able to get in contact with Barry. Merle’s trying right now, but it’s been a few months since we last talked, so I don’t even know where to begin searching.”

“Momma? Pops?” Behind them, Stevie stirs with heavy limbs. Waves of relief washes over the couple as they watch her push aside her bear mask, making a small and tired noise.

Magnus is brighter than any sun, forgetting about the stone for a moment just so that he can reach across the bed to her. “There you are,” he says.

“Huh?” comes Davenport from the stone of farspeech.

Julia pats his thigh and nods—a silent promise to help her while he deals with the call. He turns back to his daughter. “Uncle Davenport’s on the stone right now, but I’ll be back. Okay?” He waits for her to nod, giving her a quick kiss before taking the stone out of the room. “Sorry, Cap'n Port. That was Stevie. Isn’t Barry still working with that lab?” he says before the door closes shut behind him.

Julia moves to Stevie’s side, brushing hair out of her face as she coos. With how green Stevie is, she almost expects to feel a temperature under her fingertips. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

“My head hurts,” she says. Shifting uncomfortably on the bed, she looks at the door. “What happened? Why’s Pops talking to Dav? My ears are ringing, Momma. They hurt.”

Julia hushes her. “We’ll get you something for that, don’t worry. And… well, something big happened, so we’re going to go on a trip with your aunt and uncles.”

Stevie tucks her chin on her chest. “Was it bad? What happened?”

Julia threads her hand through her daughter’s curls again. “It’s too soon to tell,” she says. “Let’s pray to Istus everything’ll be okay.” She tries for a smile and pinches her round cheek. “I’m going to get you something for the ears. We’re going to leave tonight for the trip, so start thinking about what you want to pack.”

Stevie’s mouth twists with discomfort, but she doesn’t say anything else.

When Julia leaves, she closes the door softly behind her. Magnus is standing in the kitchen, stone pressed to his ear as he chats. Once his eyes meet hers, Julia goes to him for another hug.

And he gives it, like he always does.

* * *

 

 

From the oceans of Bottlenose Cove, the bond engine of the _Starblaster_ roars to life. Glittering gold hoops circle each other at high velocity as the love and affection of its wayward crew streams in from all corners of the land, bringing it to dazzling life. The residents of Bottlenose, long used to seeing the ship bob in the gentle currents, watch with slack jaws as they see the red hull lift from the green waters. Up and up the ship goes—a gnome at its helm and a dwarf at the rails.

The gnome stares at the long stretch of blue sky—the expanse of the air lain before him, prime to sail on. The dwarf leans over the edge, waving to the people below with an unsure but nonetheless reassuring smile.

And, for the first time in a decade, they fly.

From up so high, the world seems idyllic and it drives Davenport half mad. He almost expects to see the very edges of the Hunger’s scouts on the far horizon, retreating back to that damned behemoth like the twisted coward it is. But the world is only blue, so his hands grip the wheel until his knuckles are white.

Merle talks. If Davenport has learned one thing about the dwarf these past hundred-odd years, it’s that Merle will always find something to talk about and a victim to listen. He coos to plants about how lush and green their leaves are. He mutters into Davenport’s ears his opinions of the lovely wine tasting bar they spent the afternoon at. When he cleans, Merle grumbles to himself about the time wasted on niceties. Now, as they sail to the little town Lucretia is waiting in, Merle voices whatever though comes to his brain.

“We’ll need to find room for Julia and Stevie, but since we’re sharing one, I guess we’ll find a way to manage. Might have to rearrange the room assignments, but it’ll be fine as long as Lucretia doesn’t being more books,” he says, apparently directing this tidbit of information towards his partner.

Davenport only has enough energy to steer, brood over how _this wasn’t supposed to happen_ , and grunt.

“And Barry’ll answer his stone soon, so stop looking so sour, Dav.”

Davenport scowls at this. “Well, what else am I supposed to be sour about, Merle?” he snaps, uncaring of the way Merle winces. “Goddess knows it’s not the Hunger looking to screw us over! I’m personally thrilled to be back on the run again.”

Merle holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. No need to blow a casket. I’m just saying. Those kids are going to be looking towards you for guidance and it’s going to help no one if you’re all up in a frenzy.”

Davenport wants to argue, but he knows how right Merle is. They are going to have to become the remaining members of the IPRE once again, and he’s going to have to lead them through whatever this next year will bring. He’s going to have to figure out a way to do so without Taako and Lup’s arcana specialties and with Julia’s inexperience to consider. That’s not even bringing up the possibility of Barry remaining missing and the sheer fact that Stevie will be coming along (who even brings a human child to something like this?).

Merle eventually goes below deck to get the rest of the ship ready for its crew. It takes everything in Davenport’s power to not stop him. He knows his partner is only doing what needs to be done—that he’s the one gripping the frayed edges of it all and yanking them back together—but the whistle of the wind and the flat plate of the world below is unbearable. It bears heavy on him. Heavy on his shoulders and mind. He hasn’t been the captain of this ship in twelve years, and he’s not sure if he even remembers how he was able to bear that mantle of responsibility for a hundred.

He scrunches his face, banishing the thoughts from his mind. Not now, he tells himself. But his worries are the only things he can think about, so he forces his mind to blank. As an empty shell, he sails for hours.

By midafternoon, they land on the outskirts of a small village. A little smoke wafts into the air and carnage litters the ground, but whatever war happened here is long over. In the distance, they see the skeleton of a forgotten temple as orcs rush in and out. A couple point at the ship, say a few things to each other, before a male orc goes inside. A few minutes later, they see Lucretia exit. She’s older now—somewhere in her thirties—but still willowy and elegant. She grips the strap of her satchel tight as she seems to give a few last orders to an orc gentleman. He bows and thanks her, and she smiles.

A few call out their farewells as she walks away. She turns with a smile and waves back at them, slipping out a few reminders of proper medicine and healing magic. Davenport watches all this with Merle at the top of the gangplank, his fingers finding their way into his ginger moustache. “She still hasn’t declared a new class, hasn’t she? Or did she finally decide to be a cleric?”

Merle chuckles. “Who cares? She’s something else.”

The shouts of the orcs she helped fade away the closer she gets to the _Starblaster._ With every step, her smile weakens. She’s still young for a human, but the developing crow’s feet around her eyes are deepened. Somehow, Davenport knows that only started recently.

She doesn’t meet their gaze, keeping her eyes trained on the pebbled ground. Her toe hits the edge of the gangplank. Lucretia stops. They see her shoulders tremble. She’s petrified.

Calmer than she has any right to be, she crouches. She clutches the strap of her bag resting over her heart as she stares unrelentingly at the pebbles scattered on the ground.

When she doesn't move, Merle runs down the gangplank . He’s by her side when she looks up in a ticking motion, stiff and robotic. There are no tears in her eyes, but the stoney expression says more than a sob ever could. He tells her everything will be alright, that they’re going to figure this out so please don’t worry.

Davenport watches from the edge of the ship, stepping away from the gangplank. He turns and marches back to the wheel, hearing Merle’s soothing tones and Lucretia’s silent despair fade into the background. He refuses to think. His hands find the smooth grain of the wheel, and he grips it with a stiff posture. They hold tight, and he stays there—the cold sun on his face as he waits for the chance to escape.

* * *

 

Barry wakes up, which is incredible since he didn’t think that would happen. He groans as he turns his head, realizing that he’s lying on a very soft mattress with his body tucked under a thick blanket. Blinking, he waits for his surroundings to come into focus, but everything not within a foot’s distance from his eyes stays a blurry mirage. “My glasses,” he mutters aloud. They aren’t on his face. They might be on the night stand near the bed, but it’s too far for him to see clearly.

Groaning, he lays back and focuses instead on what he can infer through the haze.

There’s light coming from his side, so there must be a window on the wall behind the bed. He can see the vague outlines of a dresser and a door, but nothing sharp enough to be sure. When he turns his head to the other side, he sees his red robe hanging from the headboard and a few people lingering—an orc and what appears to be three humans. Or what he thinks are human. Too many races have the same body types and it all gets very confusing.

“You’re awake,” an older man says in a gruff tone. He’s either shorter than the rest, or sitting on a stool.

Barry keeps blinking, hoping he can make out anything about him. He sees a head of silvery hair and a bushy moustache, but nothing more. He can’t even tell how the man is looking at him. “Yes?” he croaks, wondering if he should be scared right now. “I think I am? Can I have my glasses back?”

At that moment, Barry hears a violin playing. The man in the far corner of the room is moving his arms and swaying in passion, most likely the source of the music. It’s beautiful, brimming with melancholy with every precise strum. Barry’s not sure what the song actually is, but he understands the emotions ringing through each soulful note. He feels like crying. His jaw loosens.

“We’ll give you your glasses back later,” the older man says. He gestures to the orc leaning against the wall and the other human standing awkwardly to the side. “You’ve met Killian and Avi in Phandalin, of course.”

“Avi?” Barry snorts. “Nope, sorry.”

He hears Avi make an uncomfortable noise, and that sound is familiar. “Uh, yeah we did. You dragged me down the well with you.”

Barry scrunches his eyes, hoping to see the Avi’s face a little better. He can’t see much, but he’s still disturbingly pale. “Wait, you’re that captain guy.”

Avi shifts. “Yeah, that’s me. Love the nickname.”

“This is going to get confusing,” Killian grumbles.

Before Barry can even register that she’s there and probably has Lup’s umbra staff on her, the older man pipes up again. “Over there is our bard, Johann.” At the mention, Johann nods a hello and continues playing. His ears are long, but not like Lup’s were. A half elf. “And I’m Captain Captain Bane.”

“Wow,” Barry says. “That _is_ going to get confusing.”

Avi shrugs. “I didn’t ask for it.”

Bane clears his throat. “Anyway, I must thank you for saving the lives of my best operative and the captain of our, well, everything. It was a noble thing to do—but who am I kidding?” He can hear the plastic sheen on Bane’s grin. “How can I thank you properly without knowing your name?”

“Well my real name is Sildar Hallwinter,” Barry finds himself saying. “But everyone else just calls me Barry Bluejeans.” Instantly, Barry closes his mouth shut. That’s not what he wanted to say. He can’t go around telling these people who have Lup’s gauntlet all the personal details about his life. He needs secrecy. He needs…

Johann’s music comes back to focus. A bard’s song. He’s casting _zone of truth._

Barry grits his teeth. No amount of science or multi-classing has ever given him the ability to resist that. His low as shit, _what do you mean people find him unsettling_ , charisma has made sure of it.

“Barry Bluejeans,” Bane echoes. He looks back at Johann to confirm that the spell is working, but that does nothing to dissuade the skeptical tone in his voice. “That’s unusual. Where are you from?”

“A different planar system,” Barry replies, and winces.

Bane is silent for a long moment. Then he fully turns towards the bard. “You’re casting _zone of truth_ , right?”

Johann shrugs as he continues his strumming. “Yeah dude. He’s not even resisting.”

Killian takes a step forward. “Do you have some magic making you immune to it?” she asks.

“No, I’m actually from a different planar system. This is the longest I’ve been on one plane in a century.” He needs to resist. He knows exactly how the spell works, all the mechanics woven into it. There has to be a way out.

“I don’t believe it,” Bane says. “Johann, he has to be resisting.”

“Don’t know what to tell you then, Captain,” Johann replies with a woeful sigh. “Maybe I’m just losing my spark.”

Avi steps forward until he’s at the edge of the bed. Now that he’s closer, Barry can make out the details of his clothes. He’s still wearing adventuring clothes, but the sword strapped to his side still looks fresh from the blacksmith. His hand stays far from the hilt, instead linger at the silver flask sticking out from his pocket. Barry squints as his sight travels upwards, but Avi’s too tall for his face to be within the radius of his nearsighted eyes. “I don’t really think all that matters,” Avi says to Bane, who has to be sitting on a stool, before looking down at Barry. “You said you made the Grand Relics. Is that true?”

“We don’t call them that,” Barry replies against his will. “When we made them, we just called them artefacts.”

He winces when the room stares at him. He sees Avi pick at his ears as Bane sputters. “What the hell was that?” he demands.

“That’s fucked,” Killian says.

Avi shakes his head. “Okay, okay. Static’s weird. Say that without the static.”

“I can’t,” Barry says.

“Why?”

“We have this magic being that can erase information from the collective consciousness of every living being on this plane. Whatever I say about it will be static” Barry wants to scream. He wants to stop, but he can’t make his mouth listen to his head. So he puts his head to better use and thinks. _Zone of truth_ doesn’t invoke compulsive truth telling, but it does make its victims more willing to answer. Maybe he can try telling different versions of the truth.

Killian also moves to the edge of the bed, and her gait thunders. “That’s a huge tactical advantage. He wouldn’t just tell us that without being forced to.”

“So _zone of truth_ does work on you,” Bane says.

Before he can say anything else, Avi speaks up again. “You said there’s a ‘we.’ How many of there are you?”

Barry bites back his words. “A few.”

“We want numbers,” Killian says.

“Seven.” New plan: give them stuff they don’t ask for so that he can give almost-truths and avoid them pushing for the spell’s full effects. “We’re really easy to spot in a crowd. We all wear red robes.”

“Red robes,” Avi repeats. “You’re the Red Robes?”

Rhetorical question, Barry decides. He doesn’t have to answer.

“How many of the Grand Relics are there?” Bane asks, taking a hand and pushing Avi back until he’s once again the closest one to the bed.

“Seven.” Barry skirts his eyes to Killian’s belt and sees that Lup’s umbra staff is gone. “If it helps, we didn’t intend for them to be dangerous. We’re trying to save this world.”

Bane laughs hollowly. “You make a bunch of weapons of mass destruction and you thought they were going to be used for slumber parties. Of course.” He sobers. “What are the names and locations of the rest of the members of your little gang?”

That, he can’t tell them. Barry feels the urge to reply travel up his throat, but he clamps his mouth shut. No. He doesn’t have to tell the truth if he doesn’t say anything at all. The force of it makes his eyes well with tears, but still he grinds his teeth and commands his jaw to stay locked.

He feels the collective eyes of every person in the room bore into him. “What are the names and locations,” Bane repeats, drawing out each syllable.

Barry shakes his head. No. He’s not going to say it. He’s already done enough damage. He won’t sell his family like that.

Bane lunges. Hands wrap around the collar of Barry’s shirt, and suddenly he feels himself be dragged off the mattress. He feels his side knock into the nightstand and hears his glasses clank to the ground. The back of his shirt digs into the nape of his neck as Bane lifts him in the air. Up close, he can not only see every crisp wrinkle digging into his face, but the red hue consuming his pale complexion. The crest of some militia adorns his hat, but Barry’s not familiar with enough city sigils to know where. “Answer! I know you can’t resist it!”

Still, Barry only shuts his eyes and shakes his head.

“Put him down!” He feels Killian’s hands yank Bane away. Barry gets a moment to gasp for air before falling to the ground. He groans as he feels his sensitive nose hit the floor. A new pair of hands are on him in a second, helping him prop himself upright again. It’s Avi. This close, he can finally see the familiar beard and long brown hair. The man keeps his mouth in a flat, professional line but he asks in a low voice if Barry is alright. Barry isn’t sure what to make of the way his hands check him for injuries, respectful of any pain and all privacy.

“I don’t care how much in charge you think you are, we’re not stooping down to that level,” Killian says, ushering Bane out the room. Bane shouts something back, but it’s lost the moment to door slams behind them.

For a moment, all is quiet.

“Here.” Avi pulls out the flask hiding in his pocket. “Want some? It’s just whiskey.”

Barry stares at its shiny plating for a moment. Avi is trying for a smile, but it’s uneasy. Barry thinks back to the times he’s had to win over foreign leaders to make his year a little easier. He takes it. “Thank you.” He starts to take a swing, but stops himself. “My glasses. Where are they?”

Avi scrambles around the ground for a moment, before making a noise of triumph. “Here.”

They slide onto his nose and, with an internal jolt, Barry can see everything. The room looks to be a spare bedroom of some kind, complete with its own bathroom. A lovely floral wallpaper decorates the walls, and a framed painting of a fruit bowl hangs over the decorative dresser. Nothing about this place screams interrogation room, or even a prisoner cell. The knob on the door doesn’t even have any special locks. He tries to find an answer in Avi and Johann, but one man is offering to help him back to his feet while the other retunes his violin.

Barry turns, intending to look out the window to see if there’s anything remarkable outside when a horrifying fact dawns on him.

He can’t feel his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry once again for the long wait. Life has been a pain in the butt, but it looks like things are going to start clearing up for a bit, so hopefully we can then go back to a regular update schedule. In the meantime, please enjoy this extra long chapter. 
> 
> So as I mentioned on tumblr, this chapter has been a pain in the ass. I've been trying to get all of the remaining set-up chapters done as quickly as possible so that we can get to hunting down the relics as soon as possible, so I've been rearranging and cutting things left and right. There was originally going to be a whole thing written from Stevie's POV that I had to cut so that I can squeeze in Barry's section instead of making it a whole another chapter. I might release what I wrote for Stevie somewhere else, but I also might repurpose it for something else. Who knows.
> 
> Next chapter should come much sooner this time, but it's also going to be an extra long special. It'll be the last of everyone coming together and reacting to the Hunger's arrival before we start getting into the meat of hunting down the relics, discovering more of our pseudo-BoB (please don't ask me about Avi and Bane. The captain thing was a bad idea and I already regret it), and of course finding out what Taako has been up to (that's coming MUCH later though so don't get too excited).
> 
> Either way, thank you so much for reading. The feedback so far has been incredible and I feel so honored! I hope I can live up to the hype! Thank you so much!


	5. In Which Merle Gives More Than He Receives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merle has three very important conversations. The newly reformed crew of the Starblaster finally have their team meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter is a bit more on the sad side, but none of it is too bad save for a brief (but detailed) mention of postpartum depression.

The sun dips low on the horizon, the bottom crest skimming the edge of the land, when Merle retreats to his room. They are only an hour from Raven’s Roost now, and the idea of bringing what could be three more hysterical humans on board makes Merle itch.

He’s only now gotten Lucretia to the point where he feels okay leaving her alone in her quarters, stiff and distant as she runs her hands along the dusty shelves that hold her volumes of journals. He knows that with some alone time to reflect, she’ll be okay, but the haunted look marring her eyes refuses to leave Merle’s. That’s not even considering how on edge Davenport is, but the gnome wants to be alone on the deck and Merle is the bigger man so he’ll give it.

Merle closes the door to his room with a sigh. The room he shares with Davenport is neat except for the plants gathered at the window, the old maps spilled over the corner desk, and the clothes strewn about the floor. In that way, it’s horribly messy. His steps echo through the space and each wheeze of his old lungs bounce off the walls. He wants to sit on the deck and enjoy a bottle of wine with his partner—saying nothing, lingering in each other’s company. He wants to listen to Magnus rave about how great his family is as Julia interjects her points and Stevie runs around his feet. He wants to watch the twins dance around each other in the kitchen, goading the other for being the worse chef as they try to add more spices when the other isn’t looking. That’s what Merle Hitower Highchurch wants.

But right now, he’s where his family needs him.

He pulls out the desk chair, letting it scratch on the floor just so he can hear a noise that’s not himself. An ache stretches up his back, and he signs in relief when he’s able to lean back and relax. He throws his sandaled feet onto the desk, hears a few maps crinkle under the weight, and stays like that for a long time. He watches the sunlight turn orange, splashing color on his white beard. The hue fills the room, oppressive.

Grumbling, Merle gets up and pulls the curtains shut. “Fucking John,” he mutters as the orange light disappears.

He stands for a moment, staring at the curtains. He has to reach over the box of plants he keeps on the sill, and he can feel their leaves brush his arm. Grumbling more swears, he pulls them back open and lets the sunset’s rays stream back in.

“This won’t do,” he says, stretching out his back. He hears a crack and winces. When he goes onto his knees at the edge of the bed, he hisses more swears. He’s too old for this. Nonetheless, he clasps his hands together and bows his head. Then he casts _commune_. He’s not as young as he used to be, and the spell takes the wind out of him.

There’s silence for a long moment, then Merle feels the room bend and shift. He knows that opening his eyes will reveal nothing, yet he feels the godly satyr linger above him with a chill sigh.

_Hello it’s me, Pan. What’s up?_

“Dear Pan-enly Father,” Merle says without pause. “It’s me. Your humble servant, Merle Highchurch.”

_Oh, hey. Listen, last time we talked was chill and all but you’re just going to have to ask him yourself why he won’t do marriage. It’s communication one-o-one, homie._

He feels a flush on his cheeks, creeping red under his beard, Coughing, Merle hunches into his clasped hands. “Uh, no. It’s not about that.”

_God, Merle. Have you even talked to him yet?_

“Can we just keep my relationship problems off the table right now?”

_Okay, okay. Just remember this the next time you go to me for not-marriage counseling._

Merle groans. “Thank you.”

_And I say not-marriage because you haven’t talked to your boo yet—_

“Pan!”

_So what’s actually going on, my child?_

It takes him a moment to remember why he’s praying. Spending long afternoons just talking to this version of his god is nothing new. He had to spend plenty of time introducing himself to this reality’s Pan, explaining who he is and how loyal he’s been in every plane he's visited. This Pan definitely isn’t the one he grew up worshipping, and he’s not a follower this Pan has any real experience catering to. Yet, on this uncertain ground, they’ve found a way to make whatever this is work. It makes Merle want to laugh, thinking about how semi-casual his relationship to religion has become.

“Well, you probably saw the thing that happened up in the sky there earlier,” he says, “and, well, I have some questions for you.”

_You know the drill. I can only hit you back with yes or no, but shoot._

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Well, question one: will all this turn out alright?”

Pan doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Merle feels his chest tighten. Then, ever casual: _My child, that’s not really something I can tell you._

“You’re a god, aren’t you?”

_Of, like, nature and stuff. Things like fate and destiny are not my territory._

“You can’t tell me anything?”

 _Nope._ Even though it’s a celestial voice echoing the farthest reaches of his brain, Pan still manages to pop the P.

“That was a freebie, then,” Merle shoots back. “I still want my three questions.”

_I mean? Sure? That’s not really how it works, but fine. Go ahead._

“Do _you_ think we’ll be okay?”

_Of course, my child. You’re incredible. If there’s anyone I would trust the fate of not only the material plan but the entire planar system to, it’s you._

“Somehow, that only makes things worse.”

_God. What do you want me to say, Merle?_

“I don’t know! You’re not the one who gets to ask questions here!” Merle presses his stubby fingers to his temples, grumbling as he tries to reign himself back in. He needs to at least maintain the semblance of being competent, especially when Pan is putting so much of his own faith in him. “Okay, question number two: is Barry okay?”

_Oh, your friend Barry? Yeah, he’s alright. A little worse for wear, but he’s not in any immediate danger or anything,_

“Then why can’t we reach him?”

_Is that your third question?_

“No, it’s part two of question two.”

_You can’t have multiple parts to the same question, homie._

“Says who?”

_Um, probably the guy who invented this spell. Look, the Raven Queen is on my ass right now about that John guy and his vore plane making an appearance here, so we got to speed this up. Trust me, you don’t want an audience with her when she’s angry._

Merle nearly throws his hands up in the air. “Fine, question three: why isn’t Barry saying stuff back to us?”

_That’s not a yes or no question, but you can still talk to him. Why don’t you just ask him yourself what’s going on?_

“How am I—” Merle stops himself. He can do what he used to always do to get Taako and Lup to talk to him after they disappeared. Granted, he couldn’t make a connection with Lup for whatever reason and Taako always declined, but Barry would be sensible enough to answer his call.

_So is that everything? Cause the Raven Queen is going to be here in, like, three celestial seconds, so…_

“No, last question.” Now he feels stupid for never thinking to ask this before. “Is Taako and Lup okay?”

In his mind’s eye, he can see Pan press his godly lips together. _No, my child. They’ve both become victims of terrible fates._

Before Pan could say more—before Merle could truly feel how his old heart plummets to the ground before shattering like glass—the cawing of a bird fills Merle’s head with noise.

He gasps, pressing his hands to his ears. It sounds like a hundred screeches reverberating between his bones, loosening the sinews in his muscles. It draws tears to his eyes. He swears his ears are going to bleed.

Above the cacophony, Pan’s voice breaks through. _That’s the Raven Queen. I’ll talk to you later, homie. I’ll try to put a good word in for you._

Like that, the room snaps back into sharp focus. Merle is at the foot of his bed, hands on the cold mattress. They tremble like a small earth quake as the memory of the Raven Queen’s anger makes him shiver. He swallows. His mouth is dry.

Wobbling, Merle rises to his feet. Sunset is just ending, and dusk lies over the land. Soon, they will be in Raven’s Roost.

Kicking a few pairs of dirty underwear to the side, Merle walks bow legged back to the window, his thoughts swirling. He needs to talk to Barry as soon as possible. He needs to find the twins now, before anything more horrible happens to him. He braces a hand on the sill. His eyes follow down the length of his arm until he sees the garden box.

His plants are dead. The Raven Queen has been here, and she’s not happy.

Merle groans. And that’s another thing to deal with.

* * *

Merle has seen Magnus like this many times before. He can make a laundry list off the top of his head easily, starting with the way Magnus pounded his fists on the _Starblaster’s_ rails when the Hunger consumed their home plane and ending with Magnus recounting over a warm mug the sight of Raven Roost’s destruction. Both times Merle had smiled and offered up the meager advice he could give for tragedies like those. Most never have to imagine scenarios where life’s toll is that cruel, yet it has befallen his family more than he wants to admit.

Julia is a bit different in that Merle has only seen her like this once before. A few months after Stevie’s birth, she arrived at Bottleneck Cove by herself, wretched and in need of someone to talk to. So Merle sat her on the beach and listened to the ugly thoughts plaguing her every day—of how she felt worthless, how she hated her baby and didn’t understand why, and what all that meant for her as a person. And Merle placed a hand on hers and said, “You’re not the only one who has felt like this.” Postpartum Depression is common enough, but that does nothing to ware away the sorrow he felt to see such a vibrant woman stricken with such despair.

But in the end, as the star couple ample onto the deck of the _Starblaster_ and give him desperate hugs _,_ both heavy-footed as Julia wears her adventuring clothes and Magnus his ruined IPRE uniform, Merle can’t find anything truly new or surprising at the sight. Really, it’s Stevie’s despondent face that leaves Merle shaken.

She trails onto the deck behind her parents, for once quick to disappear into the background. She rocks on her heels as she watches her parents carry the voidfishes’s tank up the gangplank. She says hello to her aunt and uncles, smiles when an uneasy Lucretia says that she was growing into a fine woman, but the face usually filled with boundless energy is gone, replaced with a tight expression . Her small hands fiddle with the edges of her Midsummer cape and her mask sits against her back like a backpack. An arm clutches a box to her chest. After a while, against the background of Raven Roost’s gates closing for the night, she slides onto the ground.

Merle waits until Julia and Magnus have the tank on a cart before tugging on one of their shirts. He doesn’t look to see which one it is, only gestures for them to bend to his almost four foot height. “Does Stevie know?” he asks.

“She probably suspects,” Julia replies. Dark circles color her under eyes as an invisible string pulls her taut. “But she was unconscious when it happened. Can you look at her head, though? She says the pain’s gone, but I’ll feel better if you just looked her over.”

He shrugs. “Alright, will do.” He turns back towards the girl, sticks two fingers in his mouth, and whistles.

Stevie perks up as Davenport groans. “Really, Merle?”

Merle rolls his eyes at him. “Hush and just get us out of here.” Turning his attention back to Stevie, he swings his hand through the air as if he’s cupping water. “C’mon kid! Let’s go to my workshop.”

“Sure!” Stevie shouts back, less out of excitement and more because Merle doesn’t think she knows how to say anything without yelling. She starts to gather her stuff, but then pauses. She turns one last look at the walls surrounding Raven’s Roost. The gates are closed, yet he can see how her eyes trace up the road leading inside, imaging the winding streets back to the workshop. She spares a second glance at the surrounding mountains and forests.

Merle yells for her to hurry up, and she scurries.

Stevie is easily a foot taller than him, which does nothing for Merle’s self-esteem. She trots beside him with her bag slung over her shoulder and the box against her chest. It doesn’t leave her when he opens the door to his self-proclaimed workshop. Plants of all kinds crowd the windows where enchanted sunlight beams on their leaves. Pots of dried herbs, sticks of incenses, and barely alive volumes are scattered over the one piece of furniture inside—a low bookshelf pressed against the left wall. It’s a small room—it can’t be big when every member of the crew is supposed to have their own office—but it fits both Merle and Stevie well enough.

Merle closes the door behind him. “Don’t touch—”

The distinct sound of a clay pot shattering fills the air. He turns in time to see Stevie look shocked at this turn of events before she jumps from the shards and rocks on her heels—eyes aimed upwards in the picture of innocence. “Wasn’t me.”

He groans and jerks to the carpet sitting center on the floor. “Just take a seat.”

She kicks a few russet shards to the side before flopping cross-legged onto the ground. Her box sits soundly on her lap, and she drums her hands on its lid.

“Alright, let’s look at your head,” Merle says, crouching in front of her. He summons a small light onto the tip of his finger. “Follow the light with your eyes.”

For a while, there is no real conversation beyond his orders to do this or that and the beat she hits on the box. As they sit, they feel the _Starblaster_ heft into the air. She wobbles and fists the carpet in her hands for purchase, and he grumbles for her to hold still.

Too soon, he runs out of tests to perform. Nothing’s wrong with her, but the girl still seems ready to burst. Not from any physical pain, but the confused emotions of a kid who doesn’t want to admit how scared she is. Merle knows why Magnus and Julia held off on telling her the facts, but he can’t stand to see the girl not act like herself.

Sighing, he rises and goes to his collection of dried herbs. “So what’s in the box?” he asks, selecting a jar of lavender.

“Figurines,” she says. “Pops made them for me.”

In a clay cup, he mixes a spoonful of the dried flowers with scented oil. “I remember that. Candlenights a few years back, right?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Well you’re going to have to show them to me one of these nights.” He returns to her sides. “Give your hands now.”

Stevie does so, and he smears the lavender mixture up her arms. The oil dries clear, but shreds of purple petals dance on her dark skin like scales. He gives a silent prayer to Pan as he does so, streaming calming magic into her. He feels the pressure leave Stevie as she yawns. “What’s that?”

“Something to make you feel better.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Your mom didn’t tell you what’s going on, did she?”

She shakes her head.

“Do you want to know?” he asks. “I’ll tell you if you do.”

Stevie thinks about it for a moment, then nods.

Merle drops her hands and leans back. It’s hard to look at her, so he doesn’t. “Well, okay. You’re probably old enough to hear this so… earlier today, the Hunger’s scouts came to this plane and found the Light of Creation. You know what that means, right?”

When he looks back, she’s tearing up and nodding like it’s the end of the world. Which, he thinks wryly, is more than accurate.

He takes a deep breath. “Do you have any questions, or like want a hug?”

She seems ready to say something, but she’s choking back a sob. She starts to curl into the box on her lap, trying to hide her face, but he stops her.

“Put your hands up like this—” He brings his palms to his face. “—and breathe them in. Speak when you’re ready.”

She mimics him, inhaling the charmed oil. Merle watches his niece relax, still on the verge of crying but in control of her emotions. He tries to sit patiently, but he’s not used to having to carry the weight of a kid’s emotional burden. It’s worst for them, being as young as they are.

Keeping her hands pressed against her nose, she finally speaks. “Will it be okay?”

Merle tries a smile, but it feels clunky on his face. “Well, I prayed to Pan earlier and I have it in good authority that we’ll be just fine.”

At that, she sniffles. Her frown is still thick on her face, but she doesn’t look too distressed. He’s about to congratulate himself on a job well done, when Stevie lunges forward. The next thing he knows, her arms are wrapped around his neck. Her crying starts anew. It’s not the kind that Merle knows how to deal with. So he sits, patting her back with defined _thunks_ as his niece sobs. He wants to say more, but his tongue sits heavy in his mouth.

Lavender hits his nose, and for a moment, all he can do is breathe it in and wait for the divine power of Pan to give him strength. After this, he knows he has to talk to Barry and he’s not sure what he’s going to get. Pan’s words ring like a dangerous blessing—knowing he’s okay, but there’s still worse things surrounding them.

Merle doesn’t know how to deal with kids, but he can’t help but to feel a little envy at the way Stevie gets to cry while he has to hug and comfort.

* * *

Barry lies in the same bed, staring at the door directly across from him as the nighttime shadows fill the room. There’s a spell around the room that not only keeps any noise he makes from leaving, but makes everything outside muffled. He can hear the voices of Avi and Killian as they talk with many others he has yet to meet, accompanied by the back and forth of a violin, but nothing is clear enough to give relief for the numbness encroaching his every waking moment.

He lies, feels every unconscious blink in his eyes, and his fingers twitch with restlessness. Yet, he can’t feel his legs.

Avi explained that he broke his spine when he fell down the well, and Barry can remember the excruciating pain that had vibrated through every limb. He can even recall hearing the chilling crack of bone. But he went unconscious soon after, so he doesn’t know for sure if all of Avi’s claims are true. Did they really take him to a healer as soon as it was safe enough to leave Phandalin, or did they let him stay injured? Did the healer really say that there was nothing she could do to help, or did they insist she keep her magic away? Avi and Killian both seem like good people, but that might not even be true. Is one day in captivity really enough for him to feel sympathy for the people keeping him locked in a room, stuck on a bed?

There are options, of course, but none are truly feasible. Does he even want to escape when Killian has Lup’s umbra staff? Barry can’t go without it. He’ll rather die than leave one little bit of Lup behind again.

He groans and knocks his head into his pillow. He can see Lup now, lingering behind his eyelids. The short uneven strands of her hair, the piercings lining her long ears. The way her smile brightens every room. How her laugh is as warm as the palms of her hand. And he thinks about he spent twelve years talking aloud to her, telling her about his day. He talked and talked to an imaginary Lup, yet he had given up on searching for her for so long.

He wants to talk to her now, but he can’t bring himself to form the words. Not when he left Taako behind. Not when he handed Maureen the Cosmoscope and watched her writhe to her death. Not when he could have stopped everything if he only knew.

Pressing a hand to his mouth, he screams all of his frustrations. It’s rough and full-bodied, leaving him emptier than before. His hand falls away, arm hanging off the side of the bed. His eyes fall shut as he wishes for it to come to an end.

 _Peace_.

Barry blinks.

It’s there, lingering in the back of his head—growing stronger. He feels it like a gold ball manifesting in his consciousness, illuminated by an unseen light. It tells him _peace_ is waiting for him, if only he’s willing to talk. Its complex magic projected from hundreds of miles away, he realizes. Sewn into the fabric of the spell is the scent of moist earth and the tackiness of tree sap dried on the skin. Realizing what this is, Barry embraces it.

He’s no longer in the plain room.

The walls are stone, the floors a decorated tile. He blinks and stares at a neat desk he hasn’t seen in a century. He’s sitting at its chair, and he runs his hands over the desk’s grain. It feels perfect. Even the layout of his childhood lab tools is exact down to the scratch marring the lens of his mounted magnifying glass.

There’s a window before him, and he looks out to see the strangled days of late autumn. The oak tree in his parents’ backyard is bare, but leaves of yellow and red flit across the ground in a light breeze. Beyond the fence are the fields surrounding the Hallwinter estate and the etched line of the city on the horizon miles away. Two suns are high in the sky—yellow and orange, staggered apart on a purple sky in sheer brilliance.

There’s a long beat where Barry can’t figure out the words he wants to say. But as the stunned silence wanes, he tells the dwarf he knows is behind him the first thing that pops into his head: “So this is what parley is like.”

“Got it in one.” Merle sits on his bed, short legs hanging over the side. He’s shirtless—that’s not new, but there’s a fair amount of new wrinkles crinkling around each feature of his face. He’s gotten old, and Barry’s not sure when that happened. He sees the light trace of a smile stretch on Merle’s face as he braces his hand on his knees. “So, you’re probably guessing why you’re here—”

“You knew I was missing,” Barry says as his own amazement strikes him. He’s been gone for only a few days, yet his family already knew that he was in trouble.

Merle shrugs. “You weren’t answering your stone.”

Barry laughs, light and breathy. He thinks he’s going to give Merle a hug, and starts to push off the desk. He wobbles, then falls back into the chair. His elbow smashes into the wood. Pain shoots through his arm. “Fuck!”

In the background, Merle hisses in sympathy and asks if he’s okay, but Barry can only focus on how his brain is telling his legs to move, but they refuse to answer back.

Even in a magical state of existence, his mobility is gone.

Barry takes off his glasses, mumbling under his breath as he swipes away some sweat. He’s not aware of what he’s doing until he feels his eyes prick with tears. The glasses are placed delicately on the table. Barry presses his hands into his face, takes a shuddering breath, then breaks into a sob.

He didn’t cry when he first learned the news. With Avi’s sympathetic eyes searching his face for a response, Barry had remained stoic. But now that he’s standing in his childhood bedroom, he feels his sorrow finally manifest and overwhelm.

Mere feet away, Merle sits dumbstruck. He starts to stretch out a hand, but then looks at the way the human stays in his own chair. “Barry? It’s going to be okay,” he says, instead. “Come over here and let’s talk about it.”

Barry looks up and drags a hand under his leaking nose. “I can’t walk.”

Merle is immediately on his own feet, standing next to Barry on the chair. This close, Barry sees the floss of white hair crossing his bare chest. Calloused hands pat Barry’s back until the human bends down and wraps Merle into a tight hug. It’s strong and desperate, but he needs it.

Into Merle’s shoulder, Barry tells him everything.

When he’s cried himself dry and ended his tale, Barry pulls away. “I don’t know where they have me,” he says. “And I don’t…” He shakes his head. “I deserve this, Merle.”

“No you don’t—”

“I abandoned her! I left her alone—fucked off, got a job, then fucked that one up!” He buries his face in his hand. “I’ve ruined so much, Merle. And for what? What do I have to show for myself?”

“Are you done?” Barry flinches. There’s no real difference in the way Merle’s talking to him, yet this one hurts. “Good, because everything you just said was bullshit. You did what any reasonable person would have done. If you’d been like Taako and just disappeared off the face of the planet, then you would’ve fucked up. But you? You mourned and moved on. And you waited until you were ready to face the truth of whatever happened to Lup.”

Merle places a hand on his forearm and gives it a tight squeeze. “What happened to Dr. Miller is not your fault,” he continues. “Lup’s disappearance isn’t either. And you know that the moment you find her again and you tell her everything, she’s going to forgive you and say that there was nothing to forgive in the first place.”

Barry can’t help but to chuckle. “That sounds like her.”

“You know it.”

They’re quiet for a long moment.

“How did you know I was missing?” Barry asked.

“You didn’t answer your stone.” Merle tightens his grip. “We were real worried about you, buddy.”

“What happened? Who died?”

“No one died. Get your head out of the morbid gutter.” Merle scratches the spot right under his right nipple. “But yeah. Something happened. You must’ve been unconscious when it happened.” And Merle tells him.

For a long moment, all Barry can think about is the moment he and Lup first formed their plan.

It was a late night with Lup in their shared lab—a dinner plate split between them. She pushed a lone meatball back and forth, a hand tucked under chin as she stared down at their pages of notes. “It just wants the Light,” she said, but not to him. Most of her thoughts she said aloud and often Barry was only there to witness. “So you want to hide the thing, but stupid Light of Creation wants to be used and just gets more creation-y the more it’s not. Remember how quickly it went from biohazard to important part of scientific research on the oh-gee plane?” She finally stabbed the meatball and shoved it into her mouth. “Makes sense why Johnny Vore Boy wants it. Like a stupid moth to a flame if that flame got a fuckton bigger and stronger the longer people didn’t use it.”

Then Lup’s mouth fell open. Like a sunrise, her head rose slowly. “Babe,” she said. “What if we made our own moth?”

Her hazel eyes flickered with light and, as they flung themselves into the idea of hiding the Light where the Hunger could never find it—making sure the Light was wanted in whatever plane it went to. Barry never doubted that this would work.

But he was wrong.

“It’s really going to come,” he says at last. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh god. We’re going to have to leave.”

“Maybe,” Merle replies, touching his arm again. “But that’s later stuff. How are you feeling?”

Barry pauses. He shoved his glasses onto his face. “You can bring multiple people into parley, right?”

“I think so—”

“Bring everyone here now.” Barry turns to his desk lined with supplies, about to grab whatever he’ll need when he remembers that all of this is a construct drawn from a memory. He shakes his head and tries to push his discomfort aside. He has a perfectly good brain, and using it is something he can still do. “We need to start planning now, and I know how this all happened.”

* * *

Parley is an ancient magic developed to establish peace among strife. To do this, it crafts a space conductive for negotiation—a room tailored to make the opposing side feel at ease. It reflects what it finds within.

For the Hunger—well, he used to be a man. He worked a nine to five job. He had no spouse or kids, or anything beyond what sat at his cubicle. John’s life was a repetitive one. So much of it was fragmented, cut-and-paste into manila folders and bound by souvenir paperweights. For John, parley recreated his office conference room. It was sunset because light always waned in his life. That was something parley could not change.

For Barry, parley found a stash of nostalgia and forged it into his childhood bedroom. It reinvented his old tools and band posters. It was autumn because Barry often treads the blurry line between life and death. This, parley understood.

For the five remaining birds and the mother of a rebellion, parley choses a college common room. It mimics the one found at the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration, complete with the grand fireplace that always blazes with flames and long plush couches. It's cozy, and familiar to most there. Long nights that turn into dozy mornings were spent in its domain, drinking and dreaming of the day all seven could embark on a voyage to where no one else have gone. They were foolish, but halcyon nights.

Keeping Julia in mind, parley made the opened stain glass windows reveal a night sky. Two suns would not be kind to her.

Then it brings all six people in.

There is a moment where the members of the _Starblaster’s_ reformed crew all blink and take in where they are. Lucretia sits with Barry at the long table, while Julia and Magnus are placed together at the couch. Merle is by the window where he can brush his fingers against the vines crawling up the outside walls, while Davenport is in the armchair close to the fire. Almost immediately, he jumps onto his feet and straightens his navy vest. “So this is parley,” he says, scanning the room for every detail. “Could’ve warned me, Merle.”

Merle shrugs. “Eh, would’ve ruined the fun.”

“Barry!” Lucretia scrambles out of her chair and envelops the pudgy man in a warm hug. “Are you alright? Where have you been?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, patting her back.

“Seriously, Bluejeans.” Magnus rushes from his spot on the couch, throwing his arms around both Barry and Lucretia in a careless hug. He lifts them high in the air, ignoring the way Lucretia laughs and Barry sputters. “We were all worried about you. What happened?”

“I’ll explain. Just put me down!” When Magnus drops him, he lands harshly on his chair. Barry pushes Lucretia back. He gives her a kind smile, before bracing his hands on the table to readjust his position. “Let’s start the meeting, Captain. I got a lot to say.”

Magnus and Julia rearrange the furniture so that it all is facing each other in a bulky circle. Merle takes the armchair and Davenport sits on its arm, leg bouncing restlessly. The Burnsides still sit close and twine their fingers together.

“Alright, so we all know what this meeting is about,” Davenport starts. He tugs on the end of his orange mustache. “It’s good to see all of us—well, most of us, together again, though I wish it was under better circumstances…” He trails off. He reaches down and, without, looking, takes Merle’s hand. “I don’t really know what to say right now. Never in all my years did I suspect that something like this would happen.”

Davenport opens and closes his mouth, but nothing comes out. After a few attempts, he only shakes his head and gestures for someone else to continue.

Julia leans forward. “So, we need a plan,” she says, as the glow of the fire highlights the coils of hair contained by her bandana. It’s red—a torn off piece of the burned uniform resting on Magnus’s shoulders.

“But before that—”Lucretia gives the room a solid look. The fireplace’s light also bounces off her hair, but unlike Julia, it does more than highlight her curls. It colors her pallid strands, painting her cropped hair into its own flame. “—we need to know exactly what caused all this.”

Barry clears his throat. “And I have the answer to that.” His eyes dart to every face but without real register. “So, I’m just going to put this out there and clear the air before this starts tripping us up. We’re in parley right now instead of me joining you because I’m kinda being held prisoner right now—”

“What!” Magnus stands with a forceful rush.

“—by the group that I’m fairly sure has actually caused all this, and the reason I can’t escape is because I am severely disabled right now.”

“Where are you?” Magnus stomps around the circle of chairs, ignoring the way Julia tells him to calm down. Heated, his hands go towards weapons at his side that are not there.

“That I don’t know,” Barry says. “And we’ll deal with that later. It’s not important.”

“Yes it is,” Lucretia says. Her full lips press into a tight line. “How are you disabled? Is there something blocking your magic?”

Barry grimaces. “No. It’s, well…” He tells them the full story, starting in Phandalin and ending in the plain bedroom. He’s much calmer this time—emotionally distant, but capable of getting the whole truth out there. Yet as he speaks, he watches his family’s eyes widen in collective horror.

“That’s it!” Magnus shoves between the chairs and storms for the door. “Take me out of parley. I’m going to go grab you right now!”

Julia groans. “Sweet Istus—Magnus, slow down!” And she sprints after him, grabbing his arm to reel him back in.

“Seriously, Magnus?” Merle says right as Davenport asks, “Do you think they left you paralyzed on purpose?”

Barry shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“There is a limit to the amount of healing magic can do, especially with something like the spinal cord,” Lucretia muses, “but I don’t’ mean to excuse any of this.” She reaches across the table, taking Barry’s hands in her. She presses her lips together, then brings his clasped hands to her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she says as though in prayer. “I want to do something to help you.”

“We have to get you out of there as soon as possible.” Merle turns to where Julia and Magnus are still bickering. “C’mon Burnsides,” he yells. “Bring it back in. We got important things to do.”

Julia tries to shove Magnus back to the couch, but when he refuses to budge, she throws him over her shoulder and carries him back. Barry can’t help but to gawk at the ease she heaves him above her. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s had a real conversation with her. She sees him and cracks a grin. “You should see him drunk, but you probably know more about that than me.”

She throws him onto the couch, causing the wood to creak a protest. At this point, Magnus is struggling to maintain his scowl as a light smile threatens to crack through the façade. Julia throws herself on top of him, playful, before drawing her face stern. Like that, she’s the tornado that started a rebellion. “Okay, so these guys have your gauntlet thing. How did they find it?”

“Has to be luck,” Davenport says.

“No, they’re too organized for that,” Barry says. “You’re going to hate this, but we weren’t being thorough enough when we fed Fisher the information. We erased, what? Just the fact that they existed, right?”

“I wrote it in my journal for that year,” Lucretia says right as the thick volume appears on the table with a thick thud. Her brows jump. “Huh. Convenient.”

A few minutes later, she has the book opened to the exact page. “We wrote—and I quote—‘there are seven artefacts containing the Light of Creation that hold great power that we, the remaining members of IPRE, created. The fight to gets these artefacts created a war that destroyed the majority of Faerun.’” She frowns. “Shit, that is vague.”

“I wanted to mention who created which one, but Taako said it was overkill,” Magnus adds, still beneath Julia.

Barry shakes his head. “I don’t think it would have made much of a difference. Because, yes, we erased the fact that they exist but people can still know what they do. Hell, I think they can still know what specific tragedies these things have caused.”

Davenport massages his temples. “You’re losing me, Bluejeans.”

“We didn’t erase every instant they’ve been used.” Lucretia stares at the ground, eyes widening as every implication is realized. Her hand goes to cover her mouth, but she forces it away. Instead, she grabs onto the edge of the table and digs her nails into the wood. “People would still know that a gauntlet caused a whole army to burn.”

“But they wouldn’t be able to know what they're made of,” Julia adds, pensive finger toying with a stray curl. “But they know everything else.”

Barry nods. “And they spread rumors about it, calling it the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet.” He pauses. “Fisher erases knowledge, but new knowledge can replace it.”

Merle grumbles. “So basically, we weren’t specific enough. Can’t we just go back and erase everything then? Problem solved.”

“That’s not even the problem anymore,” Davenport says. “We need a plan on what to do now that the Hunger is coming here in one year.”

“Besides, I would imagine it would take years to pinpoint every instant our artefacts have been used,” Lucretia adds. “And then you’ll have to keep erasing whatever new way the information is being spread. It’ll be a full time job.”

“Astute observation, but we’re still missing the point.” Davenport sends the room a stony glare. “The Hunger. What do we do?”

“We’re not running away,” Magnus says.

“We never said we were running.”

“You ran for a hundred years.” Julia points out.

“Julia, you don’t get to judge us for that—”

She raises her hands and shows her empty palms. “Fine, fine. Don’t blame me for being worried when I’m the one person here who won’t magically respawn if we screw up.”

Lucretia clears her throat. It’s a precise sound that breaks the tension building up in the room. “Are we going to fall back to my plan now?”

All is quiet for a moment.

“Remind me what that is,” Merle says.

As she starts to explain her theory on walls and the Light, Davenport shakes his head. “No, no. That’s a step ahead. Right now, we just need to focus on getting all the piece of the Light back together. Then we’ll figure out what do to with it.” He turns to Barry. “How many does your captors have?”

He shrugs. “I mean, they know what they’re talking about. Plus there has to be multiple pieces of the Light put back together for it to be strong enough for the Hunger to notice it. At least three.”

“The moment you know which one those are, report back.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Magnus sits up, letting Julia fall into place on the cushion beside him. “We’re not leaving him there.”

Davenport tilts his chin upwards. “I hate it as much as you do, but we have to. They’re our biggest competition and we need eyes on the inside.”

Magnus points at Barry. “He’s literally their captive! He can’t walk! It’s too dangerous.”

“I think Barry should decide,” Merle chimes right as Julia says, “Davenport’s right.”

Magnus turns to her. “Jules.”

“I may not be chief of military, or whatever you were,” she says. firm. “But I think Davenport’s right. It’s a bad situation we can turn into a tactical opportunity.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Barry adds, scratching his neck. “They don’t seem like bad people, and we do need the information.”

Lucretia is half out of her chair, turning a steely gaze towards Julia and Davenport. “We’d just be abandoning him and it’s going to end badly. I just know it.”

“We’re down two arcana experts,” Davenport snaps. His properly groomed moustache begins to break from its perfect curl, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. “I hate it as much as you do, but while we don’t have any time to waste on rescue missions. We can at least use this situation to our advantage.”

“We should vote on it,” she says.

Barry groans. “This is literally about me and I’m fine with it.”

Davenport ignores Lucretia’s indigent huff as he turns his glare back to Magnus. “You’re the chief of security. You know exactly what this calls for. It’s not pretty, but it’s what has to be done.”

Magnus is silent for a long moment. He doesn’t move when Julia refuses to turn her gaze.

“It’s my choice, and I’m fine with it,” Barry adds again. He tries to give both Magnus and Lucretia a comforting smile, but there is no hiding the sweat gleaming on his brow. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

At long last, Magnus groans. “Okay, but the moment we get the slightest idea of where you are, we’re going to get you out of there, information be damned.”

“Magnus!” Lucretia exclaims.

“Also I want Merle off field duty.”

“What?” Merle exclaims.

“You need to parley with Barry as often as possible,” Magnus says. “At least once a night to exchange information and keep him sane. If you’re out collecting one of the artefacts, you can’t do that. Support me here, Cap’n Port.”

“I presume Lucretia will have to be our main healer,” Davenport says. He waits for Magnus to nod. “Well, I approve. Merle, you’ll also have to be the one who stays with the ship at all times then.”

“Damnit, c’mon guys!” Merle throws his hands into the air. “It’s cause I’m old, isn’t it?”

Ignoring the dwarf’s outburst, Lucretia stares at them for a long moment. “I can heal.” With grace and elegance, she lowers herself back into her seat. “We’re getting Barry out of there as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Davenport says.

The man in question flashes a thumb’s up. “Thanks, Lucy.”

Magnus turns to Barry. “Remember how to tactically die?”

“I mean, yeah. But there’s laws in the plane that make it too dangerous to be a lich. I could just get thrown into a prison on the astral plane.”

“Okay, then don’t die. I don’t want to risk it.”

He snorts. “Thanks. I’ll try.”

Like that, silence falls between them. Six pairs of eyes glance at each other, each waiting for someone to have something else to say. The fire crackles, and they breathe to different rhythms.

Merle releases a long breath. “Look. I don’t want to be that guy, but we got to talk about the twins.”

“Has no one heard from Taako yet?” Lucretia asks, straightening her back. “I think he’s still mad at me for the almost memory-erasing thing.”

“Well I don’t think we’ve heard from him,” Julia says as Magnus agrees.

Merle shakes his head. “No, no. You couldn’t have. None of us could have.” He strokes his beard for a moment, trying to conjure the words to say. “I prayed to Pan earlier. And I got a, well, _mixed_ bag of news. First off, I think the both of them are technically still alive.”

“Lup’s alive?” Barry tries to surge to his feet, only to fall onto the ground. His chair falls on top of him, and he groans as he shoves his glasses back up his nose. Lucretia and Magnus are back at his side, helping him back onto his seat while he bursts with emotion they hardly ever seen from him. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“There wasn’t the chance!” Merle shoots back.

“I was literally having a break down over the fact that she was gone!” He fights against Magnus’s hold, as if he can still march across the room and slam a fist into the bearded face. He yanks and jerks until, suddenly, he stops.

Barry blinks as a new expression fills his face. “Oh my gods,” he mutters, softer this time. “She’s really not gone.” He repeats it under his breath over and over again, a smile turning up on his face as he is placed back into his seat. “She’s alive.”

Lucretia takes his hand and squeezes it, a look of sheer happiness consuming her features as she stands behind his chair. Magnus falls back into his place next to Julia, looking younger than he has in a long time.

From his perch on the chair, Davenport looks down at Merle. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Merle holds up his hands. “Cause it’s not all good.”

And like that, the smiles dissipates.

“What?” Barry says.

“According to Pan, both Lup and Taako are alive but they’re not doing so hot right now.” Merle looks to the side. “‘A terrible fate,’ he called it.”

His hands sit on his paralyzed thighs, forming tight fists as he tries to process the information. “And that’s it?” he demands. “Nothing more?” When Merle shakes his head, Barry swears. “We have to find them.”

“And we will.” As the room darkens with renewed concern for the lost twins, Merle looks up at Davenport. His partner nods, and that’s all the confirmation he needs. “We’re going to find them and we’re going to get them home. But we're going to have to focus on the Light first. It's what we have to do, and we’ve done worse.”

“If you ask me—” Julia keeps her hands on Magnus as he places his elbows on his knees and hunches into his wringing hands. “—you’ll have to do better this time.” It’s awkward, but sharp—splicing through the room in a decisive arc. Eyes flit to her as a loose curl falls in front of her face, but Julia keeps her stare steady. “Look. I know I’m new to all this, but there’s a lot on our shoulders. And I want all of us to do our best.”

Davenport bobs his head. “Of course, of course,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like he’s actually replying. Instead, he loses himself in thought for a long second. He chews on each word before voicing it. “I feel like this used to be simpler.”

Merle claps his hands together in forced enthusiasm. “Well, if you ask me, I think we’ll do it just fine. Wait and see, we’re going to get that light and we’re going to save the day with time to spare.”

No one disagrees, but not out of any real agreement. To say otherwise will be admitting to running away. What was once their best possible solution was suddenly the absolute worst scenario, and no one knows how to rectify that with the reality they are in now. No one save for the one new member of the crew, who curls and uncurls her hair as she keeps a steady gaze on the roaring fire.

Julia keeps all emotion from swirling in her chest. She learned long ago to hope for nothing when it comes to battles against fate and law. But deep down, beneath gusto of a woman prepared to fight, she knows that fate will not be kind. And so, only in her head, Julia disagrees.

* * *

Severed from her body, one of the seven birds is trapped inside an umbrella.

For the first six years of her imprisonment, she struggles to stay conscious. Every magical fiber of her being swirls in a conglomeration of archaic power and energy collected from every inch of the multiverse. She fights to separate herself from the other powers lying dormant, repeating with no real voice the facts she knows are true. She knows her name is Lup, and she clings to it with the stubbornness she was born with. She is Lup. She is not a wayward spirit from cycle 97 or the fiery magic of an elf wizard who shares her face or the bits of the Hunger devoured by the umbra staff. She separates herself with repetition, outlines her mind into a clear shape she can fall into, and sculpts everything she can reached into something that can be her.

She is Lup Del Taaco. She is a female elf. She is also a lich. She is resplendent and powerful. She crafted her own prison.

For years, she waits with learned patience, but the cave she rests in is not one well traversed. But she plots and she plans. She wants to see her family again—Barry with his chubby face, and her brother with his wild grins—and she will do whatever it takes to reach them. It is not until a pair of travelers wander in that she seizes her opportunity. Controlling the umbra staff, she jumps into the hands of the orc. She cackles with energy, all but screaming to be taken. And, sure enough, after the orc argues with a second voice, she is laced through a belt loop.

The third voice she hears comes much later, but it is one that nearly makes her lose herself all over again. It’s gravelly, but familiar, like a strange copy of one she might know. It isn’t until she hears him ask about the umbra staff does she recognize it. Barry. Shock makes her dissipate into something that isn’t Lup, and she curses herself for putting on such a large show earlier. By the time she forms back into herself with enough energy to look outward again, they are at the bottom of the well and Barry is unconscious. He doesn’t look good, and it takes so much to not strike down the whole world for doing this to him. There is already talk of taking him with the orc and the other human, so she keeps her eyes on Barry and waits.

Too soon, she is being handed off to a different man while Barry is being carried far away from her—but not too far, just up the stairs. The orc is explaining where she found the umbrella, and the male gnome holding it nods. “It looks to be an umbra staff,” he says. “Powerful weapon, but completely useless to you. See if Ren might find some use for it, but bring it back if it causes problems.” The orc thanks him, and now Lup is being carried up the stairs to be passed along to a dark elf.

Barry is nowhere to be seen, but this Ren looks nice. Sure, she's missing a few fingers and looks as though she's gotten it rough, but there's still an elven beauty in her high cheekbones and narrow face. She turns the umbrella in her hands as she talks to a room of adventures about the food she wants to make that night. Her recipes aren’t that bad. Still, Lup overhears talk of a mysterious man kept locked up in the spare room and knows she can't get comfortable. She will play nice for her own sake, but the moment she can reach Barry, she’s her own master.

When that happens, nothing will stop her from getting what she deserves.

She is Lup, and she is one of the seven birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a long mess, but I just wanted to get through the rest of the set up part of the story asap. I didn't realize until I started this chapter that I had no idea how to write Merle, but I think I figured it out. You can also tell from the meeting scene that I hate writing scenes where there's a huge amount of characters talking to each other. It's real messy, and unlike chapter one's confrontation scene, I don't have enough time to really smooth out the hiccups. Next chapter we're going to actually get into finding the relics, and oh boy I'm excited for that. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this story and shared their thoughts about it. I'm really glad that there's people out there that are interested in this big old mess, and I can only hope that I can continue giving you something that you're going to enjoy. So thank you!!!!
> 
> PS: I was half asleep when I edited this, so please feel free to point out any mistakes that I need to change. Thanks!


	6. In Which Magnus's Dick is Smaller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first attempt to retrieve one of the Grand Relics ends with an even bigger mystery. Barry makes a friend.

Lucretia reads the sign hanging above the town gate. “'By their sacrifice, our home is made safe.'” She makes a face and drags her arm across her sweat-drenched forehead. "Chill."

Standing next to her is Magnus and Julia, both as exhausted and dirty as she is. Davenport landed the _Starblaster_ some miles away, afraid the aerial ship would frighten the residents of the small town of Refuge. This means they had to hike across the Woven Gulch while the unforgiving sun stands tall in the sky at high noon. They’re wearing their most fitting summer outfits, but not even the most breathable shirt and the loosest of pants can stave away the pure, torrid heat of the land. Lucretia had long since ripped off the top layer of her tunic, but now that she’s in sight of the town, she tugs it back over her undershirt in a huff.

“I think you guys will like it here,” Magnus says, uncapping his bottle of water. Dirt covers his bare calves and, whenever he moves, the ends of his shorts lift up to reveal a tan line developing on his bronze legs. “It’s got the rustic hospitality thing going on. We’ll be in and out in five minutes tops.”

“Don’t jinx us, Space Boy,” Julia says, tugging on the edge of her shirt. She chose to wear a long, airy skirt and seemed to be the most comfortable one in the trio. A sliver of her mid-drift peaks out from the band of her skirt and her stomach bulges outward before being tucked into the elastic band

Magnus finishes chugging as much water as he can before handing her the bottle. “Nah, I got a good feeling about this. In and out, and done. First artefact reclaimed.”

Lucretia feels herself start to say something, but stops. Davenport put her in charge for Julia’s first big field mission, but there’s something strange about being the leader when her two best friends have silent communication down to an art form. Still, she has to at least try. She’s about to go over the details of the plan again, surely earning another groan from Julia (who is more than sure she knows it all by now), when she notices Magnus.

Without the water bottle, nothing stops him from wringing his hands. She stares for a long moment before looking up and making eye contact with Julia. His wife gives a curt nod before placing a comforting hand on his bicep.

Lucretia runs a hand through her cropped curls before turning back to the town entrance. “Well, then. If you’re so confident,” she says, trying to add enough emotion that even someone who hasn’t known her for a century can hear her enthusiasm. “Let’s get started.”

* * *

The plan is simple.

Magnus knows he left his creation—a cup that can control time—in the humble mining town of Refuge. Out of all the artefacts they scattered around Faerun, Magnus’s cup was the only one that caused no apparent travesty. During the nights Lucretia and Taako would stalk bars for news of their artefacts, they never once heard a rumor involving the manipulation of time. News of Refuge never passed from one mouth to the next.

In a way, hearing nothing was worse than hearing everything. Lucretia kept strict lists of the horrific destruction their artefacts had caused. It was horrible to know Taako’s stone killed a whole town because a little girl wanted candy, or Davenport’s monocle was used to create an immortal army. But that was better than the anxiety that struck Magnus. Lucretia can still remember the first time he turned to her and said, “what if there was a future where this isn’t happening, but someone used it to go back in time and make this happened? If someone did something, we wouldn’t know.”

It was a conversation she could not have, one that repeated with increased frequency as the glory of their voyage's end waned. It was one that reverberated around every corner of her head when she first decided to free her family from the pain of what they had done.

But that’s beside the point. Without anything to say otherwise, Magnus is confident his cup is still in Refuge. It’s the best lead they have on any of the artefacts’ locations, so it’s the first one they plan to take.

And the plan is simple: find someone named Jack and ask to have the cup back. Davenport wanted to prepare for more, but Magnus is beyond sure it will be all they would need to do. Go in and just ask.

It’s inane how obvious it is, but bare-bones plan mimics the aesthetic of the town.

Refuge is one linear street lined on both sides with quaint wooden buildings. There seems to be a layer of dust over every sign and window, but it only serves to make it all more charming. People of all races mill about the street, talking and going about their business at a lazy pace only a town so comfortable in itself can. Lucretia, Julia, and Magnus stick out as the obvious foreigners. Their adventuring clothes and haggard appearances draw eyes, but most leave them be. The few who don’t only give a wave and a hearty howdy.

“See?” Magnus says. “Rustic hospitality.”

A large statue stands at the end of the street. As they draw closer, its features become clearer. Made of old brown metal is the figure of a seven year old girl standing next to a tall man. They resemble classic frontier types—the girl in a knee-length dress meant for playing and the bearded man in miner clothes. They hold hands, but another pair of copper hands rests on both their shoulders. It’s another tall figure, this one muscular with his face shrouded by a robe. The whole statue is devoid of color, save for where a careful hand had painted the robe a vivid red.

“Oh my god,” Lucretia says right as Magnus makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “ _No_.”

Julia gawks “Didn’t you just give the poor guy the cup and leave?”

“Yeah, but—” Magnus runs his hand through his hair. “I guess I am just that cool.”

Lucretia rubs her temples “I am going to go to the town hall, find the person who commissioned this thing, find them, then personally cut holes in all their socks for doing this to me.”

“Chill, Lucy. I think it’s lovely,” Magnus says.

“We both know you’re not going to shut up about this for weeks,” Lucretia shoots back, earning an amused snort from Julia. “This is the nightmare scenario.”

“Oooh, I can hear it now.” Julia clears her throat and sticks her hands on her hips. Then, in the deepest voice she can muster: “ _Look at me! I’m Magnus Burnsides and I have a statue in a town that thinks it knows what size my dick is.”_

“Hot diggity. That is—that is on point.” A smile cracks over Lucretia's face, and she breaks into a laugh.

Despite the red flush crawling down his neck, Magnus laughs with them. “Alright, alright. Point received and slammed dunked.” He waves a hand at them. “Can we just find Jack and get out of here already?”

“Sure.” Julia turns to the nearest person—a half-orc woman with a single square tooth sticking over her lip from her lower jaw—and waves her down. “Excuse me, Miss?”

The woman screeches. “Dang-nabbit! Don’t sneak up on me—I’m a _pretty_ jumpy!”

Julia tries for an awkward laugh. “Oh right. Well, I’m Julia—”

Lucretia coughs. “ _Fakenameshinthint._ ”

She watches Magnus’s wife blink, smile straining as she remembers one of the first rule for going on a mission with a certified _Oh Shit_ status. She twitches as the half-orc woman literally chews over the name. “Now, that’s a bad name. _Ju-lee-aye._ Never heard of one I trusted. Sounds like a type of gremblin.”

“That’s because my name is actually Judy,” Julia says.

“Well, in that case!” And she sticks out a large hand. “Name’s Cassidy. I’m the mayor in this here town.” Julia takes the hand and almost yelps at the way Cassidy yanks it up and down like a jump rope.

Magnus takes a step forward. “Uh, hi Cassidy. I’m Marcus—that’s my real name, by the way.”

“You’re mighty handsome, Marc.”

“Thanks, I’m married.”

Lucretia almost groans. “We’re old friends of Jack,” she says, stepping up to the front. “Do you know where we might find him?”

“Sure. He’s just down the road, six feet under in the old cemetery.” Out of respect, Cassidy spits a big wad.

Magnus freezes. “Jack’s dead?”

“Been dead seven long years, boy.”

He steps back. He looks back at the statue, eyes widening as he sees the inscription at their feet. Julia slips her hand into his, tugging him away from the caricature of the red robe. She smoothes a hand down the side of his face and hushes him. Julia leads him away, sending apologetic looks back at Lucretia as she leaves her with the hillbilly.

With all the grace in the world, Lucretia steps between them and Cassidy, giving an icy smile that breaks whatever train of thought that connects Magnus to the statue. “Tell me the whole story. Now.”

It takes a lot more wrangling to pull the whole tale from the vapid half-orc. By the time Lucretia knows that she’s not going to get anything more, Magnus and Julia are sitting on the ground a few feet away, hands linked together as they lean against the side of a splintering building. Dust kicks up around Lucretia’s feet as she joins them, slipping onto the ground on Magnus’s other side. “Okay?” she asks.

Magnus shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. What did she say?”

“Well, between the spitting and the accent, I think she said that Jack was murdered by the former town elder. She didn’t say why, but apparently doing this caused a protective barrier to go up around this place that didn’t allow people in or out. That’s why that statue is there. You’re known as the Protector because it inevitably protected this town from what little of the Relic Wars were going on in the gulch.”

“So the cup was here,” Julia says as Magnus’s grip tightens.

“But we got in,” he says. “So it’s already long gone.”

Lucretia places her hand on his bent knee. “June’s still alive, if that helps. Cassidy says that she practically runs the local saloon.”

Julia stands and brushes the dirt off the back of her skirt. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s check it out.”

Magnus glares at the painted statue. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Davy’s Lamp is possibly the most rustic part of Refuge. The doors are nothing more than swinging wash boards screwed to an archway, leading into a dim saloon complete with a bar and plenty of round tables. A rough mixture of locals and adventurers gather in their own clusters, a few singing along to the jaunty tune of the ragtime piano while others show off weapons and loot.

Lucretia feels Magnus pause behind her. Without looking herself, she knows where his eyes are: the teenage girl behind the bar. She’s stuck in an odd age where she’s not yet an adult but definitely not a child. Her hair is the color of corn, and it’s twined into twin braids draping limply on her shoulders. Whistling a tune, she finishes ripping up a postcard before throwing the pieces into a trash bin. Then, with freckles dancing on her sunburnt cheeks, she plucks a glass off a shelf and cleans it with a wet rag.

Lucretia can’t help but to stare as well. She spent the past decade roaming the land of Faerun, finding those of every race who needed her help. Long hours were spent not only wrapping and mending, but also listening. There are wounds no magic can heal. In those times, a good ear is all that’s needed, and Lucretia would listen. She would hear story after story of what little her charges could remember of the Relic Wars—how they know there was something they were fighting over, but they can’t remember what. How there’s an explainable source of their pain they can’t grasp, and how the mystery burrows deep and wrecks their psyche. They are the patients Lucretia spent the most time with, and the ones she hates being around the most.

And here is Magnus, seeing for the first time a victim of his creation.

“Should I start the conversation?” Julia asks, voice delicate. “Or—”

Magnus rushes forward. “Uh, excuse me?” When June looks up at him with a smile, he freezes.

“What can I do for ya?” June asks, a rustic lilt dragging out the vowels in her words.

Magnus stalls. “Uh.” His eyes dart from her to the seat at the bar. “Can I sit?”

“This is a bar, so yeah.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks.” He scrambles onto the stool. “Uh. Well, I’m Magnus. That’s Julia and Lucretia.”

“Sup.” Lucretia gives a small wave before clasping her hands in front of her. She wants to do more, but this is Magnus’s moment to heal.

Julia places both hands on Magnus’s shoulders, causing him to flinch. He eases the moment he feels her curls brush against his face as she gives the teenager a gentle smile. “Are you, by chance, June?”

“The one and only,” she replies, setting the now clean glass to the side. She grabs another one and sets to work. “Can’t imagine why some adventurers have come all the way to the middle of nowhere just to see me. Are you looking for Miss Ren?”

“Don’t even know what a Ren is,” Lucretia says without thinking. She hears Julia snicker as June blinks. “I mean—”

And June laughs. Lucretia relaxes and smiles.

Magnus leans into the counter. “Do you maybe remember me?” he asks. June pauses, putting the glass and rag on the counter. “It’s alright if you don’t. It was a long time ago.”

“I mean…” She takes a deep breath. “There’s a diagram of the statue. The original version. Your face…” Her mouth breaks into a large grin. “Mister Protector—back in Refuge at last.”

Magnus almost looks relieved, but his face draws back up again. “I’m sorry about your loss. Jack was a good man.”

“It was a long time ago, Mister Protector. I’m sure he’d appreciate the thought, though.”

Gingerly, Lucretia takes the stool next to Magnus. Her clasped hands are on the counter, and she tightens her grip on herself. “I know you have to be excited to meet Magnus again, but can you do us a favor and tell no one that he’s here?” she says. “We’re trying to keep a low profile.”

“Oh sure.” June draws an imaginary zipper across her lips. “My lips are sealed. But it is a small town, so I guarantee you everyone and their cow are going to know by sundown.”

“We’ll do our best to be out of your hair as soon as possible. We just want to know what happened to make the bubble come up around the town.”

“And what brought it down,” Magnus adds, prompting each woman at his side to nod.

June places her hands on her hips. “Well. It’s a story, and a long one at that. Can I get you folks anything to drink? It’s on the house, of course.”

Julia leans more into Magnus’s back. She’s on top of him like a blanket, but Lucretia think that’s the point. They’re a tactile couple, so this must be the best kind of comfort she can give him right now. “I’ll take whatever beer you got. You, Magnus?”

“I’ll pass,” he says, wringing his hands.

The teenager turns her eyes towards Lucretia, waiting for an order. “Red wine, if you have it,” she says. Then, without thinking: “leave the bottle.” That earns her another snicker, but this time she can’t even bring herself to care.

As June gets them their drinks, she tells them the story of Sherriff Isaak. She explains how he and her dad were friends until the Temporal Chalice—that’s too fancy for Magnus, Lucretia thinks—had driven Isaak to murder. With reverence, she explains how Isaak tried to redeem himself for his crime and how he long left Refuge in search of it after the barrier went down. As Lucretia runs her finger around the edge of her wine glass, June explains how being possessed by feels like. She holds up a shot glass and says she never realized how empty a person really is until another entity fills you up. Then, bit by bit, you lose scraps and pieces until you’re not sure who you are anymore—a single drop of liquor diluted in an ocean of water.

“How did you get out?” Magnus asks, eyes cast down at his hands.

June says, “Well, someone found his way in.”

“How?” Julia says.

“Not sure. I’m not good with that science-magic stuff. He just wormed his way in and, bam!” June smacks her hands together. “He was inside.”

Lucretia scoots closer to June, taking a quick guzzle of wine. “Was this punk with anyone else?”

“Nah, but he dragged Miss Ren into everything. He repeated the same hour over and over again, and each time he would convince her to leave this here saloon and help him figure out a way to fix everything.”

“But why?”

“He was looking for something—not the chalice though, since he didn’t take it when he got the chance. He and Miss Ren resisted its spell and she’s the one who took it out of Refuge. Not sure where it is now, but I know she’s doing okay. She comes back pretty often to check up on this place.” June picks at her ear. “There’s a statue of them at the temple. We didn’t want it to clash with the one of the Protector.”

Lucretia thinks for a moment. Despite naming Ren automatically, June avoided giving the man in question an identity. No race, class, or anything. Whether she’s been sworn into secrecy or simply doesn’t know it doesn’t help them one bit. Looking askance, she tells Magnus and Julia without words to follow her lead. “Where’s this temple?”

They stay to finish their drinks and talk more with June about the inane things in life. It’s more out of politeness than any real interest, but Lucretia doesn’t mind. June’s a smart girl living the simple kind of life she wants. After what she’s been through, Lucretia’s glad she can have something like that. Magnus tries not to sulk the entire time they chat, but the fact that the chalice is in the hands of this Ren weighs heavy on his mind.

When they finally push back through the Davy Lamp’s swinging doors, the sunlight blinds them. It leaves Julia squinting longer than the other two. Lucretia’s not really sure how, but her eyes are still adapted for twin suns. Her pupils adjust to brightness faster.

“She was nice,” Julia says holding a hand over her face. “Shit.”

They head west, in the sun’s path. They keep their hands against their brows like visors, chatting about nothing as they trek out of the linear town and towards the white clay temple. As they get closer, they make out the shape of the statue. For Julia, it’s the that sun’s glare prevents her from seeing any real detail. To Magnus and Lucretia, it’s the distance.

“So,” Lucretia says. “Any bets who this punk is?”

“Real estate prospector,” Julia says.

Magnus snorts, turning from the sun to look down at her. “Who'd want land all the way out here?”

“It's for a Super Fantasy Costco. It's like regular Fantasy Costco, but bigger.”

Lucretia laughs. She looks back at the statue again, finally getting close enough to make out the finer details. It’s two tall elves standing back to back—one, a woman that has to be Ren. Her long hair is in a braid that flows down her back, paused in motion as she holds a rod before her. She’s in a work apron, and she grins at an unseen enemy.

Standing at her side, is a male of equal height.

“No way.” She sprints. Lucretia hears Magnus and Julia shout and chase after her, but she doesn’t care. Dirt kicks up behind her feet as she finally gets close enough to confirm her suspicions.

She pauses at the foot of the statue.

“Holy shit,” she hears Magnus say.

“Yeah,” Lucretia says. “Holy shit.”

The male elf has shoulder length hair, pulled into a stub of a pony tail that would break free with every turn of the head. His long ears are adorned with piercings, and his clothes are a mismatch of pieces—a flowing blouse, high-waist pants, thigh high boots, a gaudy vest. Rings adorn every knuckle of the hands holding a stone replica of the chalice. A wizard’s hat is tilted downwards on his head, hiding the details of his face.

But Lucretia doesn’t need to see the face. She can tell from how this stone mimicry holds himself exactly who he is.

Their hearts stutter like a struggling engine as the tale of Taako's disappearance clarifies and convulutes at the same time.

“I can’t believe they think Taako’s dick is bigger than mine,” Magnus says.

* * *

The first week being a prisoner is less than what Barry would call ideal. Unlike one plane where he had been held captive by the enemy nation of the civilization they befriended, he doesn’t have the constant threat of death by starvation to worry about. Hunger hallucinations, he found, were pretty entertaining once the delirium sets in. But here in this plain bedroom, he can wake up at dawn to the muffled noise of a city coming to life and not feel the very threat of his existence hang in the balance. There’s nothing to quiet the roar of his brain trying to work through all the possible locations of their artefacts—of all the terrible and cruel fates that could have fallen Lup and Taako.

He’s bored.

The only stimulating part of his day is when Bane drags Johann and whoever else in the ragtag group is available into the room to go through another round of interrogation via _zone of truth_ _._ By not responding, Barry doesn’t need to worry so much about spilling anything important to him, but the spell’s inherent invasiveness still wears. Bane leaves every time full of disappointment, and Barry is then free to wait until nightfall for Merle to drag him into parley.

There, he can bitch however much he wants.

“Do you ever just hate someone so much you, like, don’t even want to kill them?” Barry says as he sits in the mirage of his childhood bedroom. Sometimes he cracks open the window by the desk and feel the imagined wind of his home plane. Other times he gets Merle to take a model ship off a high shelf just so that he can have something familiar to fiddle with.

“Yeah, but we gotta convince these people that we’re the good guys here,” Merle replies.

“I know, but like I want to go into my lich form and just ruin his day. Make sure he spills coffee on his pants, untie his shoelaces. Put laxatives in everything he drinks.”

“Clog every toilet he tries to use?”

Barry laughs.

At the beginning of week two, Barry wakes up with the sense something is different. He reaches for his glasses on the night stand and puts them on, blinking as the room comes back into focus. Same old floral wallpaper, same closed door. Mumbling, he turns his head and sees someone had set up a small, foldable table by the window. There’s nothing on it, but there is a comfortable chair waiting to be sat in.

A few minutes later, a knock breaks the silence. Barry flinches, whipping his head towards the closed door. “Hallwinter? You up?”

At the sound of Avi’s voice, Barry pulls himself until he’s sitting up completely. “Uh, yeah. “ He croaks. “I’m up”

“Cool. Can I come in?”

Bane usually barges into the room whenever he pleases. “Yeah?”

The knob turns, and Avi pushes the door open with his hip. His clothes are the most casual Barry’s ever seen them—paint stained jeans and an old t-shirt. There’s no sign of the sword he usually has strapped to his hip. In his hands he holds a tray with identical bowls of oatmeal and a plate of sliced fruit. Avi’s eyes meet his and his lips pull up into an awkward clone of a smile. Then they’re back down again in an instant as he brings the tray to the table. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, taking his time unloading each bowl and plate.

“Fine?” Barry looks between the bowls and the door Avi left open. “What are you doing?”

“Well, it’s pretty early and no one else is up yet. And I noticed that you’re usually up around the time I am so I figured that since I hate eating alone, I could force you to eat with me.” Avi doesn’t meet his gaze. “I mean, I know you can’t really go anywhere or anything, but I’m not actually going to force you to. I’ll leave if you want.”

Barry is quiet for a long moment. He can’t stop glancing at the door Avi left ajar. Without it being closed, the spell around the room breaks. Barry can make out all the noises of the world he’d been missing. The city bustle outside is window is as clear as day as vendors shout prices and children scurry to school. He can hear the loud snoring of a sleeping man in the other room, and even the faint bubbling of a kettle on a fire.

“If you get me some coffee, then sure,” he says at last.

Avi looks at him and grins. “Sugar and cream?”

“Blacker than night.”

“Got it.” He struts out with a new bounce in his step, passing through the doorway without closing Barry off from the world again.

Barry can’t do much magic without a focus, but he still performs a quick cantrip on the food to check for any kind of poison. When his magic sight reveals none, he tries one that checks for traces of magic. Again, nothing. He turns back to the doorway and takes in what he can now tell is an upstairs apartment. There’s a comfortable living room right in front of his door—as plainly decorated as his own room, but now he can tell it’s less of a torture mechanism and more of someone having a bland taste in decor. There’s a few more doors within his line of sight and, from the direction Avi walked off in, Barry can guess that there’s a kitchen somewhere to the left.

If Barry wasn’t being kept here against his will, he would almost call it charming.

Avi comes back, this time armed with two steaming mugs of coffee. “Just to warn you, it’s all going to taste like dirt,” he says. “I swear that once Ren’s back, she’ll make you a meal to die for.”

“I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of killer meals in my time.” Barry says, accepting the mug with a strained smile.

He watches Avi take a long drink of his own before starting on his bowl of oatmeal. “Ren used to be a chef or something. She’s hard to beat.”

“Well my standards are pretty high.” Barry takes his first bite and almost gags at how bland it is. And he thought he was a bad cook. He starts to reach for the plate of sliced fruit when Avi picks it up and hands it to him. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Tastes like dirt, right?”

“So you weren’t a chef in a past life?”

Avi barks a laugh. “God, no! Imagine!”

Barry piles on as many pieces of banana and strawberry as he can onto the top of his oatmeal. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t have to look to know the smile’s gone from Avi’s face, so he just continues stirring his breakfast together. “There’s no spells or serums on the food. No _zone of truth_ or anything. What are you getting out of this?”

“Well.” Avi takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m getting someone to eat breakfast with.”

“And Bane?”

“Had a job to go back to. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“But you’re keeping me captive here. You know, like I’m your enemy.”

Avi scratches his beard. “I mean, sure. That still stands. But you’re not a bad dude.”

“Didn’t I help make the—” He gestures as he tries to remember the words. “—Grand Relics?”

“Yeah, but…” Avi reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. With a little quirk of the brow, he pours a quick shot of brandy into his coffee. “You saved Killian and I back in Phandalin. You didn’t have to.” He takes a long drink from his mug. “If you didn’t drag us into the well with you, you could’ve stopped your own fall. But you didn’t.”

Barry stabs his oatmeal with his spoon, quiet as he watches the cook oats fill in whatever hole he makes. “You know, this isn’t half bad with fruit,” he says at last.

Avi relaxes. “That’s why I brought them.”

For a beat, there’s nothing but the noise of their chewing and sipping.

From out in the living room, one of the doors open and an elderly gnome walks out. He’s dressed for the day in elegant robes, a book tucked under his arm as his long beard drags on the floor behind him like a wedding train. He blinks with sleep as he sees the opened door, and consequently Barry and Avi.

The gnome groans. “Captain—”

“It’s alright, Leon. Hallwinter’s harmless,” Avi says. Then, under his breath: “And he’s much better company than you.”

Barry almost snorts.

Leon spends a second glaring, then shrugs as he starts to walk away. “Bane’s not going to be happy with this.”

“Let me deal with Bane and you deal with your store. You’re opening in an hour anyway.”

Leon only waves him off as he makes his way to the kitchen.

Avi turns back to Barry. “Leon’s chill. He’ll mind his own business as long as you don’t piss him off in any way.”

Barry nods, not sure what Avi thinks he’s going to do with that information. Barry knows he’s going to report that back to Merle tonight during parley, but what happens once everyone else is asleep is none of Avi’s business.

Barry chews his oatmeal and fruit into a thorough mush before swallowing. A particular thought sticks out in his brain. “So there’s seven of you.”

“Hm?”

Barry makes a list in his head, and yes. There has to be seven. He knows Bane runs the show, along with Avi and Killian. He sees Johann every day, and he seems to be the designated bard of the team. Barry caught a glimpse of Ren once while she was on her way out on a mission with the orc. As far as he can tell, she’s gone the most often due to Brian’s death making her the only practical magic user left in the group. Sometimes, Barry overhears someone mention telling a “brat” one thing or another. And finally, there’s Leon who apparently owns a store.

“It’s funny,” Barry explains. “There’s seven of you, and there’s seven of us.”

“I guess that is funny.” Avi leans back in his chair. “So, who’s lucky enough to call you their husband?” he asks, pointing to the gold band on Barry’s finger.

Reflexively, Barry places a hand over it. The gold is warm on his skin, and he twists it between his fingers. “Oh, uh. Her name is Lup.”

“Pretty.”

“Yeah. She is.”

Avi looks as though he wants to say more, but a faint beeping comes from the living room. “Stone of Farpseech, Captain!” Leon shouts.

Avi rushes to his feet. “Shit, that can’t be good.” He gives Barry an apologetic look before bolting out of the room. His hand grabs the edge of the door on his way, but he lets go before it can close completely. A normal habit of someone mindful of others privacy. It cuts Barry’s view of the living room in half, giving him enough space to see Avi go out of sight for the stone. Barry hears him pick it up. “Avi here.”

Barry scoots forward as much as he can, straining to hear every bit of the conversation as he can.

“Did she use the Oculus for anything?” Avi asks as he paces into the living room. He’s tense, bordering on the levels Barry saw in Phandalin. “Hold on. I’ll hand you over to Leon.”

He doesn’t see Leon get the stone, but he can imagine the gnome tugging on his beard as he listens to whatever story is being told. “Well, I won’t be able to tell until I get it, but it could be anything from summoning magic to transmutation. Just from stories I’ve heard, I’ll say that it’s illusionary magic taken to a whole new level.”

Barry’s heart stops. They found another one of the artefacts, this time Davenport’s monocle.

Leon says a few more speculative statements about the monocle that is probably wrong before handing the stone back to Avi. The pacing resumes once again, still anxious but brimming with positive energy. “I don’t want anything going wrong, so I’ll meet up with you guys in Rockport and join you on the train to the brat’s place. I can be there by tomorrow morning, so get a secure train chosen by then.”

And Barry can’t help the sly smile inching up his face. He doesn’t know where the _Starblaster_ currently is, but it can go faster than any train. He can tell Merle during parley tonight everything, and his family can be in Rockport before the train departs. They can take the monocle back and finally have a piece of the Light back in good hands.

Finally, Barry thinks as he digs back into his bland oatmeal. Something good is finally happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't particularly like this chapter since it is the transition into the real first relic retrieval arc. I really hope the things that did happen here were worth the wait. I'm especially worried that the momentum built up with the reveal of Taako once being in Refuge wasn't stunted by the sudden jump back to Barry being sad. Or, in this case, less sad. You all can't claim I hate Barry any more now that Avi's trying to be his friend. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I've been getting a lot of really great feedback on thoughts involving this AU. So much of it has been positive, which absolutely blows my mind, but if there's ever any critics you ever want to give, feel free to do so. I'm always looking forward to improving my craft. In the meantime, thank you so very much to everyone who has taken a few moments out of their days to leave kudos or a comment. You guys are the best, and the world does not deserve you! XOXO
> 
> See you next time! Feel free to hit me up back over on tumblr!


	7. In Which Lucretia Engages in Small Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia talks about her fears. The teams gets a ride on the Rockport Limited. A very smart boy tortures some adults.

Magnus wakes far too early. He lays in the darkness of his old dorm on the _Starblaster,_ staring at a part of the ceiling he’s not used to, and it takes him a minute to remember why. They had to squeeze a bigger bed in here so he and Julia can sleep together. It’s a tight fit—most of the room is mattress instead of floor, but space has never been an issue for them. Julia lies where he did in his century long youth, curled on her side with her curls splay around her like a halo. He turns his head, staring at the way the moonlight from the window highlights every ringlet, how it paints silver on her dark arm as she holds the blanket closer to herself.

He looks at the clock and nearly groans. It’s nowhere near sunrise— too early to be awake. But his anxiety rips through his veins and, no matter how much he wills otherwise, his eyes are glued open. The mission coming up today is nothing new. It’s actually safer than many of the other excursions his quest to find the Light of Creation has forced him into, yet his heart thumps with such force that his chest aches.

Sighing, Magnus brings himself closer to Julia. He wraps an arm around her and presses his face into her curls. He breathes in and smells soot and sweat.

She shifts. “Are you awake?”

He almost sits up. She’s stiff as she loosens his arm and rolls to face him. With the moonlight against the back of her head, he can’t make out the clear details of her face. But he knows Julia, and she has to have been awake for far longer than he has. He brings his hand to her cheek. It’s wet. “You should be asleep."

“So should you,” she says. Her hand slips onto his waist and rests there, anchoring him in place. “Go to sleep, big guy.”

“We’re talking about you right now,” he says. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you awake?”

She’s silent for a long moment. Magnus feels her eyes trace the lumpy curve of his nose, slick down through the auburn of his sideburns. “I keep on having this dream.” Her voice is barely more than a breath that bends into what could be words. “I wake up alone in our house, and Stevie is asleep in her room, but you’re not there. I look for you, but it always ends with me realizing that you and everyone left. And when I wake up, I always think it actually happened.”

He strokes his hands down her face again, feeling her tremble as a few more tears leak across her face. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“I’m just being silly—”

“Jules.” He brings his face closer until their foreheads press together. His hand tangles into her hair, and he wants it to stay there forever. “It’s not silly. If I were you, I’d feel the same way. No matter what happens, I’m never going to abandon you. I promised you that we’ll work as a team, and I'm not gonna break it.”

“I know, I know,” she whispers, closing her eyes.

“Listen. I have been to a hundred different realities, but none of them compare to this one because they didn’t have you. Hear me? I love you, Jules. And I never want to live in a universe without you in it.”

Her eyes snap open, and she pulls back a little if only so she can see him clearer. “Damn. That was probably the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”

Magnus stares for a long moment, then breaks with an undignified snort. “God, Jules,” he says, pulling her closer.

She can’t help but to snicker along with him. “Sorry,” she says, hugging him. “It’s just. Damn, Magnus. That was good.”

“Thanks. I try.” She fits perfectly under his chin, and he bends down and kisses the top of her head. “But seriously. I’m not going to leave you.”

“I know.”

He stares out the window, watching a few clouds float through the sky. By luck, none of them drift over the half moon. “You’ve really carried me through these past few weeks, and I don’t think I ever asked you how you felt.” She starts to object, but he hushes her. “I just want you to feel like you can lean on me. I don’t want you feeling as though you have to be the strong one.”

She grips him tighter. “You’re in pain and you need me.”

“You’re also in pain. Nothing that happens to me will ever make me not want to be there for you too.” He kisses the top of her head again, lingering for a long moment. “I love you so much.”

She looks at him and smiles. “Same,” she replies before kissing him on the lips.

* * *

As planned, Lucretia knocks into the bearded man. “I’m so sorry,” she says as both her stacks of drawings and his printed itinerary scatter across the wood floors of the Rockport train station. Unlike the rest of the city, its mostly wood arch ways and stone walls, but that’s the impression the tourism comity wants visitors to have of their fine home.

Lucretia is on her knees in an instant, for all intents and purposes giving off the appearance of searching for what papers are hers. In reality, she only messes up the man’s stuff more until he won’t notice her dragging his paper ticket closer towards herself.

The man squats with her, swearing as he starts to sort. He’s everything Barry describes him as being, down to the long ponytail of hair swishing with every turn of the head. “No, I’m sorry,” he says as the side of his sheathed sword drags on the ground. “I wasn’t looking.”

“No, no. You’re fine. It’s really my fault.” Lucretia peeks at the ticket and, sure enough, she sees his name and train number. Picking it up, she holds it out for him. “I think we’re on the same train.”

Avi jolts before he looks up and sees the ticket in her hand. Lucretia watches him relax as he takes it back. “Man, that’s one hell of a coincidence.”

From there, she rushes to gather the rest of her prop drawings. In under a minute, she has a clear face to match Barry’s stories, a train number to look out for, and a check next to part one of their plan. With a skip to her step, she holds her sketches close to her chest in one hand as another picks up her suitcase and struts across the station. Waiting by the ticket booth, both dress in common clothes devoid of the color red, is Davenport and Magnus.

Davenport looks up from his newspaper as she approaches, flicking it shut and folding it in half. “Got it?”

“Rockport Limited heading towards Neverwinter. Twelve-thirty departure. And I didn’t even have to make that big of a scene.”

“You asking to see the manager would’ve been hilarious,” Magnus says. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he leans back as if he’s about ready to fall asleep. If the deep lines under his eyes are anything to go by, he needs it.

“Good work, Lucretia.” Davenport slips off the bench. He lands on his feet with a thud, the tips of his penny loafers shining under the sunlight. He’s dressed as if he does golf every weekend—complete with a plaid vest and a bourgeois cap. “I'll get tickets. Magnus, call the _Starblaster_ and let them know that we’re entering full incognito mode.”

“Roger that, Cap‘n Port.” Magnus pulls out his stone of farspeech and immediately connects back to Julia and Merle.

The dwarf has to stay behind with the ship as per orders, and Davenport was worried that bringing more than a standard team—a healer, a magic user, and a fighter— would attract too much attention. Davenport and Lucretia immediately filled the first two roles, but the place of the fighter fell to the Burnsides. “I want you to stay behind on this one, Julia,” Davenport said. “The thrall of the Light is going to affect us, but less so than it will affect you. Once we know for sure how to prevent you from falling victim, I want you to stay behind.”

Julia curled her lip at that, but with all the poise of a regular leader, bowed her head and relented. She knows when to stand back, which when Lucretia asked him about later, Davenport said he admires. So now Julia sits with Merle in the kitchen, waiting for the stone to crackle to life for when they need her.

It takes a few minutes for Davenport to return with the tickets, time Magnus spends chatting to Julia about Stevie. Lucretia idly sketches a new drawing, joining him in the casual scan of the train station. Together, they watch as each person display their ticket to the steward before loading on. There’s a dwarf woman and a salacious wizard. Both are burdened by loads of luggage, and Lucretia worries their sparse suitcases will seem suspicious. Davenport had tried to make them as realistic as possible, but they house little beyond extra weapons and their IPRE uniforms.

Next comes a young boy with circular glasses that take up the majority of his face. The case he carries is bigger than he is. After him, it’s Avi. He’s flanked by a drow and an orc, making the perfect adventuring trio. They amble onto the train with little fuss.

Davenport trots back to them. “So I got the tickets and we need to scram now,” he says as he picks up his piece of luggage. It’s the perfect size for his stature.

“Train’s not leaving for another half hour,” Lucretia says as she stands and grabs her own bag. She nudges Magnus’s knee with her foot. He gives Julia a quick goodbye before bounding into motion.

“Yes, but seats on that train are expensive, so I used illusion magic to make it seem like I had more money than I really do.”

“Damn. Davenport’s turning towards the darkside,” Magnus says.

Davenport pulls a pocket watch from his coat pocket and checks the time. “I estimate that Tom Bodett won’t realize it until we leave, but I’m not going to chance it.”

“Isn’t Tom Bodett the carriage driver that drove us here?” Magnus adjusts the battle axe on his back. He most likely won’t get it past train security, and she’s starting to think neither hers or Davenport’s wands will either.

Lucretia shakes her head. “Rockport is home to the majority of the Tom Bodett population.”

“Oh really?”

“I hate to be that gnome, but I just told you that I used counterfeit gold pieces to get our butts onto a train we’re going to rob,” Davenport says. “I’d appreciate it if we could get a move on.”

“Gods, you act like we haven’t already done some highly illegal stuff on a bunch of different planes,” Magnus grouses as they finally grab their stuff and embark towards the Rockport Limited.

* * *

 

“…and _that_ concludes our tour of the train,” Jenkins says, chin aimed high as he resumes his standby position of holding his hands behind his back, heels clicked together. He’s a tall elf with aged, drooping ears and a two-part moustache no wider than a pencil line. His holographic bowtie adorns his collar, so tight that the thick column of his neck fights to break free. Lucretia can’t help but to stare at the way colors shift on its surface—neon pinks swaying with techno silvers and greens. What a thing to wear when you’re a dour-faced elf working a job you obviously hate.

“If you have any further inquiries, I am always here to be of assistance,” Jenkins continues. “You are free to roam the dining cart and your own personal chambers, but may I highly recommend using the opportunity to utilize the pleasure chamber?”

“Hey, man.” Magnus holds up his hands. As predicted, he was forced to lock up his axe along with their wands in the storage car. “You’re a catch and everything, but I am happily married.”

Jenkins holds stiff, then sighs. “You have made that joke no less than five times, yet I still wait for the moment for it to be funny.”

Lucretia slaps a hand over her mouth to hold back her laugh. “Oh shit. Jenkins coming in at the end game with a killer burn.”

“I apologize for their rude behavior,” Davenport says, placing a hand on both their thighs in the semblance of a wise parent. Which, considering their hastily put together cover story, is more than fitting. “I did my best to teach them manners. Really, I did. But no one listens to their parents anymore.”

“That is very wise of you,” Jenkins says

“But not as smart as the deal I’m giving you.” Davenport grins. “How about thirty silver for the bowtie?”

Jenkins groans. “It is my personal touch, and it is not for sale.” He turns on his heels and starts for the door. “The train will be leaving shortly, so I recommend taking your seats. If you have any further needs that must be attended to, please _hesitate_ to ask.” And with that, he swivels and leaves for the front of the train.

“You’ll find the right guy someday, Jenkins!” Magnus shouts as the door between the cars shut behind him. “Man what a total stick in the mud.”

“I mean, we were ruining his day,” Lucretia replies as if she didn’t make direct eye contact with Jenkins every time she knocked a decoration off a high self. In her defense, the train has surpassed the acceptable levels of fancy design. The inside of the Rockport Limited is ornate in every regard—plush red cushioned seats, fine wood molding on every possible edge. Lush bows tie curtains away from the windows, and the world outside lunges into a blur as the train zips through the countryside.

“So how are we going to jack the monocle?” Lucretia asks as she takes one of the many seats in the car. The other passengers must be in their individual rooms, which will probably not last long since they’re in the dining car.

Magnus flops into the seat next to her. “We could threaten the engineer to open the safe for us.”

“Illegal.” Davenport says as he takes the seat across for him.

“You already made counterfeit money,” Lucretia says.

He crosses his legs and sighs. “I could probably take over driving the train.”

“I hear a ‘but.’”

“But no offense, Magnus. But you’re not the type of guy who would threaten someone. You’d probably be apologizing the whole time.”

Magnus mulls over it. “We could wait until it’s being unloaded from the train to take it.”

The door slides open, and Lucretia looks behind to see the little boy from earlier trot inside. He has a large book tucked under his arm, his eyes skirting around every corner of the car. When he catches her eyes, he gives a small wave before taking his own seat in the corner. The book cracks open and he starts reading.

Davenport has to stand on his seat to see what she’s looking at. He holds back a groan as he slides back down. “Okay,” he hisses. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

“But we need a plan,” Magnus replies. He’s trying to be quiet, but his voice is naturally tuned three notches louder than the average person.

Davenport twists the end of his mustache. “Scout towards the back of the train then. I’ll take the front. Let’s just get a better idea of our surroundings now. Lucretia, stay here and keep an eye on who goes where. If anyone tries to go towards the storage car, take note of them.”

“I know we’re on luck’s bad side on any given day,” Lucretia says. “But the chances of someone else trying to steal the damn thing is zilch.”

“We’re just being safe. Heaven knows all our plans go awry at every possible chance.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n Port.” Magnus sticks his hand out. “Tres Train Robbers on three.”

“I’m not doing that,” Davenport says as Lucretia slaps her hand on top.

“If we’re the Tres Train Terrors we can shorten it to the Triple T,” she says.

“Yeah!” Magnus takes Davenport’s hand and forces it on top of the pile. The gnome sighs and accepts his fate. “On three!”

“Triple T!” Lucretia and Magnus bounce their hands before throwing them into the air. Davenport watches with a small smile.

Then they break.

Or, at least, they try to.

When they turn, they see the little boy from earlier standing in the middle of the aisle with a book tucked under his arm. He smiles with a benign tilt of the head. “Hello sirs and Miss!”

Davenport’s brows scrunch together. “Hi?”

“Do you mind if I sit here?” He points at the spot next to the gnome.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He slides into place, and the book under his arm moves to his lap. He’s dressed in an outfit within the same vein as Davenport’s, though replacing the smart slacks is a pair of shorts that reveal bright white socks folded over his calves. “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Angus McDonald.”

He sticks out a hand and, after a moment of confused consideration, Magnus takes it. “Hi. I’m Magnus.”

Lucretia coughs. " _Fakenamesdumbass."_

“Good to meet you, Mr. Magnus!” Angus says, blinking as Lucretia hacks. "Are you alright, Miss? Do you need some water?"

She clears her throat, sending a sheepish Magnus a dirty look. "No, I'm fine. Where are your parents?"

“Oh, I haven’t had any in a very long time, so I’m traveling alone.” Ignoring the way the words smack the adults’ faces, he inches forward until he's at the edge of his seat. “Is this all your first time riding the Rockport Limited?”

“We usually travel by, uh, different means,” Davenport says. He gives the other two a look that clearly tells them to scatter. “Well, I’m going to go to the men’s room, so…”

“Please do. But before you go, I just want to say that you three have to be the worst thieves I have ever met.”

“What?” Lucretia’s mouth is wide open as Magnus’s hands grip at the ends of his hair, amazement clear on his face. She tries to smooth her visage. “What in the world would ever make you think—”

“I’m ten, not stupid, Miss.” Angus pushes his glasses up his nose. “I walked into the car in the middle of you guys talking about your plan, then you continued making them even when I made my presence known. You even just did a football pep rally with the name Tres Train Robbers—which, by the way, your enthusiasm for teamwork is admirable. And finally, I’ll also bet my hat that you’re the gnome that paid for the tickets with illusionary magic.”

“How the—” Davenport casts _detect magic,_ and sees an aura of divination magic glowing around Angus’s book. “Who gave you an Interceptor Book, kid?” He reaches for it.

Angus holds it close to his chest, twisting so it’s far from everyone’s reach. “I bought it with my own money, thank you very much. Money I didn’t have to counterfeit.”

Magnus whistles. “Oooh, got us there.”

Lucretia gives him a sharp look as Davenport fumes. “A little help?”

Magnus laughs a little before leaning forwards, propping his elbows onto his knees. He’s serious, but not trying to intimidate.“Listen, Angus,” he says in a tone that makes Angus sit up a little straighter. “All this is really impressive, and I can bet that you’re not going to tell us why you own it.”

“No, sir!”

“Right. So, you’re just going to have to trust us when we say that we’re the good guys here. What we’re trying to steal is something that’s really dangerous in the wrong hands and was originally ours in the first place. We’re not trying to hurt anyone here.”

“No offense, Sir, but if you’re thieves there’s no reason for me to trust anything you say.”

“Fair point. You’re a really smart kid, Angus.”

“The fact that I’m a just a little boy doesn’t take away from the fact that I’m smart. You’re just being reductive.”

Magnus’s smile tightens in a way that reads _dad_. “Alright. You’re just plain smart. Can I ask what we have to do to prove to you that we’re the good guys here?”

Angus’s lips twist together as he holds his chin between his fingers. As he thinks, Davenport gives Magnus a look that clearly reads _are you sure about this?_ And Magnus waves his worries away. Lucretia just stares at Angus the same way a person does when they see someone else’s hair caught in a public shower drain.

“Okay, sirs. Miss.” Angus nods at Lucretia and she grimaces. “You can tell me all the details about your case, and I’ll decide from there if you’re really people I can trust.”

“I’m sorry, but we really can’t do that,” Davenport says.

“Why not?”

“Because what we’re doing is serious and I don’t want some kid to get involved.”

“Well, I’m a little boy and I can yell, yell, yell and get you in lots of trouble.”

Davenport recoils. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“I wouldn’t call it blackmail, sir,” Angus says with a smirk. “In my business, we call it leverage.”

“And who’s going to believe a child when he claims that a bunch of nice adults on the train are robbers?” Davenport shoots back.

Magnus presses his face into his hands. “Don’t argue with kids, Dav. You’re never going to win.”

Angus grins. “The Neverwinter police, for starters. I’m very close to them.”

“Are you a hairless dwarf or a tall gnome?” Lucretia says, looking up and down for any clues.

Angus whines. “No! I’m a real human boy! And I’m going to yell, just watch!”

Lucretia rolls her shoulders. “Sorry, but you’re too smart to just be, what? Six?”

“I’m ten!”

“Dav, this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth,” Magnus says. Before the gnome can stop him, he snaps his fingers at Angus. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen up. What we’re trying to take back is a magical item that can cause wide-scale mass destruction if used wrongly. We need it to literally stop the apocalypse, and that’s all you need to know.”

Angus gawks.

Magnus gets a moment to wonder if everything he said came out as nothing more than Fisher’s static. Then he thinks Angus simply doesn’t know what to do with a story as crazy as that one. With a small fumble in which he tucks the Interceptor Book under his armpit, Angus reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a notepad. “Of course,” he says, flipping to a predetermined page. “The Grand Relics and the Midsummer Eyes are connected.”

And the three members of the _Starblaster’s_ crew stare. “What?”

“Well, the Grand Relics are widely considered to be seven magical items capable of causing unexplained disaster, though the details and actual numbers of the relics vary from rumor to rumor.” Angus doesn’t look up from his notepad, scribbling down notes only he can understand. “And the Midsummer Eyes was the phenomenon a few weeks ago in which thousands of eyes filled the sky. No offense, but everyone knows about that one.”

“What are you, kid?” Davenport asks.

Angus clicks his pen before sticking it behind his ear. “I’m just a little boy who happens to be very, very smart.”

“That’s bull,” Lucretia says.

“No Miss, that’s the whole truth.”

“You’re, like, ten,” Magnus says.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not smart enough to see through your horseshit,” Angus shoots back. “So are you going to fess up why you made the Grand Relics or am I going to have to wring that out of you too?”

“What?” Davenport yells, looking as if he’s about to lose his mind. Magnus’s blinks dumbly as he tries to remember what that means. Lucretia simply freezes.

And Angus smiles until his cheeks are round.

Before he can get an answer, the door on the other end of the car slides open. “Aw, Jenkins isn’t in here either,” Avi says as he steps inside. His ponytail swishes around his head as he scans the rows of empty seats before landing on where Angus is winning a glaring contest with Davenport. Lucretia and Magnus turn around, arms over the back of the seat as they watch the orc and the drow come in behind the human.

“Hey, it’s you from the train station.” In a few quick strides, Avi is by their cluster of seats. “You really weren’t lying when you said that we had the same train. Big coincidence, right?”

Lucretia tries for a polite smile, trying to quiet the thumping of her heart. “Small world, I guess.”

“Yeah. Do you think Jenkins would throw a fit if we just broke into his liquor cabinet real quick?”

“ _We_?” The orc woman is at his side and jabs her elbow into his side. She’s a robust, forest shade of green complimented by the black spikes of her hair. “You’re the one who can’t go five minutes without drinking.”

“Seriously, Avi.” The dark elf stands off to the side, an affectionate smile on her face as she folds her arms over her chest. She tilts an ear towards him and keeps her eyes on his lips. Lucretia realizes she must be deaf in one ear. “I made a living selling alcohol and I’m not half as bad as you.”

Davenport smooths his ginger hair and smiles as though Angus isn’t stewing mere inches from him. It’s what he does when he needs to have a moment to let the cogs turn, ruminating over every possibility until he knows which direction to lead them. When he speaks, it’s deliberately congenial. “Let a man have his vices.” He slides off his seat with a thud and motions for Avi to follow him to the bar. “Let’s see if they have some keys laying around for this thing.”

Lucretia gives Magnus a sideways glance, resisting the urge to sigh. On the _Starblaster,_ Davenport insisted they avoided interacting with Avi and his gang as much as possible. That plan, it seems, is completely out the window now, replaced with one where they try to make friends.

Magnus shrugs and points to the new empty spot. “Might as well take a seat, then,” he tells the two women. “Scoot over Angus. Make room.”

Angus sends him one last glare before placing a joyous visage over his face. “Of course!” He slides down to the window and pats the plush cushion next to him.

“Is that your kid?” The dark elf asks as she takes a seat. She tries to nudge the orc to join her, but she only shakes her head and leans against the seat instead.

“Nah, he was just traveling alone and we figured we’d pick him up,” Magnus says.

“Don’t get him started on his actual kid though,” Lucretia says. She wants to keep as much of the conversation on Magnus’s shoulders as possible so that she can keep a good eye on Avi and Davenport at the bar—both chuckling over a good nature joke as Davenport jams a wire into the cabinet’s lock. Being a dad, Magnus can keep a better reign on Angus as the kid stews over his revelation of the Grande Relics’ origins.

Lucretia frowns. A smart kid like that is bound to be trouble.

“My daughter’s the best!” Magnus gushes. “I just started teaching Stevie the other day how to fire a bow, and she’s picking it up fast.”

The dark elf’s ears flicker. “I’m sorry. What’s her name?”

“Stevie. We wanted to honor my father-in-law.”

“Well that’s real sweet.” The dark elf runs smooths out her skirt, and Lucretia notices how she’s missing a few fingers on her right hand. Whatever this girl went through, it must have been rough. “Oh, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Ren.”

Magnus falters.

In an instant, Lucretia is smiling broadly and holding out her hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” she chirps, trying to be bigger than the pale shock consuming Magnus’s face. “You have such an interesting accent, where are you from?”

“Oh, just this little town in the middle of nowhere. Nothing really special. How long have you two been married?”

Lucretia forces a laugh. “I’d rather impale myself with a dull pencil than marry this doof. We’re more like siblings, you know.” For emphasis, she holds up her hand and shows the lack of ring.

Ren makes a quick apology, about as off-kilter anyone not used to Lucretia’s deadpan would be.

Magnus finally recovers. “No knock on Lucretia, but my wife is pretty incredible,” he says, putting his hospitable charm on full blast. That means she can't offset it by coughing a reminder about fake names and incognito mode. But with Angus already knowing Magnus's real name, there's not much left to hide. “I’m Magnus Burnsides, by the way.”

“No way.” The orc’s arms fall to her side, her mouth falling open as she stares in amazement. “ _The_ Magnus Burnsides? From Raven’s Roost?”

“Yeah?”

Finally, the orc slides into place next to Ren. “Oh my god, no way!”

Ren looks between them. “Do you know each other, Killian?”

“No, but like…” Killian laughs. Her tusks shine under the lamplight. “I’ve had to listen to, like, six different bard songs about what you and Julia did in Raven’s Roost. It’s incredible.”

“You have bard songs about you?” Lucretia asks, an edge to her voice.

“Our friend Johann sings them all the damn time.”

Magnus whistles, leaning back in his seat. “Wow. Julia’s going to freak when she hears about this one.”

“My nightmare scenario continues,” Lucretia says to no one.

“You have to show me your ax technique,” Killian continues. “I prefer the crossbow myself—”

“I’ve actually only ever used a normal bow,” he replies. “So you’re going to have to give me a tutorial on how to do that.”

Ren leans so she’s closer to Lucretia. This close, Lucretia can see how her dark skin seems sponged with purple undertones. It’s radiant with her silvery hair, and there’s no doubt that even by elven standards, she’s beautiful. “And we lost them.”

“And so we have.” Lucretia fiddles with the fabric of her skirt as she tries to think of something else to say, the details of Magnus and Killian talking weaponry falling into the background. All she can think about his the statue in Refuge, how a stone version of the woman before her posed side-by-side with a replica of Taako. She wants to grip Ren’s shoulders, cast _zone of truth,_ and demand to know every little detail. How was Taako last? Is he okay now, or was she involved in whatever terrible fate befell him? At the very least she wants to wring out some detail as to where Barry is.

But she can’t do that. Instead, she has to plaster on a nice smile and pretend she doesn’t know anything about these people and the person they have captive.

It might have been pure luck then that there’s a bang at the window.

Angus yelps.

In the upper corner of the window is a hand—covered in bright blood as the fingers squirm over the glass in the last grips of life. It scratches and thuds for a moment longer before the shape of a body passes by the glass as it rolls off the roof.

“What the—” Magnus surges to his feet, latching his hands onto the bottom of the window. He shoves it upwards and jams his head out in time to see the bloodied corpse lay on the sides of the tracks, shrinking as the distance grows. He scans the horizon of blurring trees for any sign of attackers. None reveal themselves.

Through the roar of the wind comes the thudding of quick feet.

Magnus cranes to look towards the front of the train, catching the smallest sight of a figure jump into the space connecting the engine car to the passenger one.

He pulls back in. “Someone’s sneaking onto the train,” he says, turning to the room of shocked faces. “First car.”

Killian starts for the door, taking Ren’s arm to drag her along. “We’ll take care of this.”

Magnus looks at Davenport. The gnome still holds a wine bottle in his hands and, after a second of thought where his eyes trace over the expression on Avi’s face, gives a nod. Grinning, Magnus barrels into the aisle. “So are we. Let’s go!”

Lucretia turns to Angus. “Stay here,” she says before running after them. She doesn’t wait to see if he listens or not. Davenport scurries along as well.

With the human and orc in the lead, the three other magic users and Avi trail through the next few cars. They pass by the other two passengers on the train. Davenport convinces the wizard to stay in his room and Avi has to give a short apology to the dwarf woman for the noise insisting that it’s an emergency they don’t need to worry about.

Killian and Magnus are still at the front of the pack when they bust into the engine car. They see three things.

On the floor, right by the door to the control room, is Jenkins. He slumps at an unnatural angle, his head lulled to the side as his eyes stare at the open window with no recognition. His mouth is agape, and blood still leaks from the slit in his throat. Only mere traces of his holographic bowtie still shine through the increasing blood stains.

The door to the control room is open, and they can make out the limp body of the engineer—also dead. The poor dwarf is face down in a pool of his own blood—one arm laying over his back as another is splayed to the side. His hands are gone

They're being stuffed into the sack on the hip of a dragonborn woman. Her blue scales shine against the fiery coals of the engine as her yellow eyes lock with theirs. “Hey there,” she says, a forked tongue sticking out with each gruff word. “Perfect timing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest crime in the world is Magnus being established as some kind of folk hero, but Griffin never giving us a scene where someone knows who he is. I can't believe I have to do all the work around here....  
> So shout out to anybody out there who thought I was going to do another murder mystery. I mean, no one specifically said that they were excited for a rehash of the Rockport Limited plot, which is a good thing cause I'm determined to do this in my own way as much as possible. wink.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone and anyone who have seen this story, gave it a quick read, and decided to show some support. I appreciate each and every bit of it, and I'm always interested to know any little thought anyone could have about it. Despite knowing where I'm going with this story, I still somewhat feel as though I'm winging big parts of it, so every little bit of feedback helps.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you have a lovely weekend! XOXOXOXOX


	8. In Which Davenport Plays Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes try to get the oculus before Carey does. Meanwhile, Stevie thinks too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: fairly graphic depictions of violence, but nothing detailed enough to qualify as gore.

“Perfect timing.” The dragonborn woman grins, revealing a long jaw full of razor teeth. “I was just finishing up here.”

Keeping his eyes between every fluid movement of her muscles and all the possible ways she can reach for a weapon (daggers are strapped to every limb, and he can see multiple blades attach to the belt strap around her waist), Magnus takes a small step forward. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asks.

He feels Killian edge up to his side, cracking her knuckles as she readies for a brawl. His hand reaches for his ax, only to meet empty air. That’s right. All his stuff is in a locked chest on the opposite end of the train.

“Well, I’m Carey, and I’m just someone who has a few bills that need to be paid.” She pats the bag at her side where the amputated hands lie. “Listen. You seem like nice people. You got a whole entourage and everything. I know when I’m beat. So I’ll make you a deal—I’m just going to leave with what I came here for and none of you are going to get in my way.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Killian says before lunging forward. Her fist rises into the air, aiming for the center of Carey’s face. Carey twists. She catches Killian’s green arm, letting the momentum of the punch past over her scaly bicep before tunneling it in the opposite direction.

Mere seconds later, Killian flies into Magnus. He doesn’t move fast enough, and the both of them crash into the metal wall of the engine room. All air escapes his lungs, and it takes all of his power to push Killian off .

He wheezes and forces himself back onto his feet.

“Hey!” Avi and Lucretia push forward, but Magnus holds out an arm and blocks their path. Swaying on his feet, Magnus grits his teeth and rushes in.

He wants to feign a throw at one side before changing course and aiming a kick at her legs. He sees the motion clearly in his head, and he knows he’s fast enough to do it. Yet she just rolls her eyes and jump. High into the air she goes. She easily touches the ceiling—avoiding any possible hits. Her dagger glints as she pulls it from its strap on her hind leg. She crashes on top of Magnus.

The next thing he knows, he’s on the ground—the claws of her foot curled over his neck, restricting his breath. Something warm and wet covers the back of his head, and through the terror of his lungs struggling for air, he vaguely remembers how much blood soaks the floor. Carey bears the rest of her weight on his chest as she bends down towards his face. “Sorry pal, but I warned ya.”

An intense pain rips through his hand.

Magnus yells, feeling Carey jump off his chest and onto the opened window. Perching on the sill, she strikes off a salute, grinning as everyone else rushes inside. “See ya!”

Like that, she slips out of the train and away.

“Magnus!” On her knees, Lucretia slides to his side, her hands over her mouth as she stares at his hand. “Oh gods.”

He turns his head, jolting when he sees the dagger going straight through his palm, nailing his hand into the floor. It hurts like a mother fucker now, but he knows there is no small amount of adrenaline preventing him from feeling the true agony of his injury. “Well, _hmm_.” He tries for a smile. “That’s a real shiner.”

“Don’t goof about this,” Lucretia says as Ren and Davenport come up behind her.

“Holy shit,” Ren says, ears drooping in sympathy.

“That’s a real shiner,” Davenport says

“See?” Magnus throws up his good hand. “That’s what I said!”

“If you’re going to be like that—” Lucretia unbuckles the belt on his pants, pushes his pelvis up so that she can whip it off. She folds it in half and jabs the leather into his mouth. “—then I better hear you hit a high C.” Without ceremony, she grabs the dagger’s hilt and jerks it out.

Magnus screams. He bites into the leather as the sharp blade widens the wound on its exit. Tears stream down his face.

“You’re doing great, Magnus,” she says, calm as his voice dies down. Lucretia fists the bottom helm of her skirt, grimacing as she tears the fabric in two.

Davenport kicks the engineer’s body to the side so that he has enough room to crouch next to Magnus. “You were a flat E at best,” he says, taking Magnus’s good hand in his own.

Magnus squeezes it, talking into the leather belt no real words. He’s still crying, and snot runs down his face.

“How in all mighty hell are you guys so blasé about this?” Ren demands. She looks down at Lucretia. “Do you even know how to do healing magic?”

“Actually, I do.” With one last rip, Lucretia has one foot less of skirt and enough cloth to work as bandages. She takes Magnus’s bleeding hand in hers and starts wrapping it up, muttering magic under her breath. She knows enough of the healing arts that she can make something as simple as bandages a temporary focus, but without her wand, her powers are limited. “I can only disinfect and lessen the pain. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do.”

Magnus spits out the leather belt and grins. “It’s alright, Lucy. Merle always does less.”

Davenport snorts.

“Did she seriously kill both Jenkins and the engineer just to take a pair of hands?” With Killian’s arm around his shoulders, Avi joins the circle. He winces as Lucretia swiftly wraps up Magnus’s hand, before his blue eyes scan the entire room. “I mean, nothing here looks off.”

“There’s two dead bodies,” Davenport says, standing. He struts up to Jenkin’s body, looks at it with pensive eyes for a long moment, before bending down and jerking the corpse’s suit jacket open.

“What are you doing?” Avi asks.

“He doesn’t seem like he’s missing anything,” Davenport says, pulling ticket stubs and coins from the pockets. The elf’s pocket watch is in the pants pocket, and Davenport holds it up for a moment to prove his point—the gold plating glinting off the sunlight. His hands travel to an inner pocket of the coat, and he pulls out a holographic wand. “Here.”

He tosses it to Lucretia, who grins and sets to work completely mending Magnus’s hand.

“But she killed two people,” Killian says. She looks a bit dazed, but with every passing second she becomes less confused. Replacing it is sheer exhaustion, marking lines under her eyes. “Why?”

“If she wanted to rob us, she should’ve attacked the storage car…” Davenport twists the end of his mustache. He pauses. “Oh shit. She’s going to unlock the safe.”

All six hustle down the cars of the train. Ren leads in the front, easily outpacing Davenport with his short strides. Avi and Lucretia bring it up from the rear with Magnus and Killian leaning into them for support, tripping over their feet as they go from the personal chambers and into the dining car. The rows of seats are empty with no sign of anyone inside. When Ren yanks the last connecting door open, a gust of wind bursts inside.

The storage car is gone. Davenport and Ren push into the small deck leading out into open air. The bolt connecting the cars is in place with nothing to connect, rattling as the train thunders onward. Davenport looks down the length of the tracks, squinting when he sees a shrinking shape in the distance. “Lucretia, the wand.”

She hands it over to him, and he casts a small spell that improves his vision. Now he can see the clear outline of the storage car and Carey bracing on the side of it, grinning as the car slows to its own halt. “Ah, shit.” Davenport steps back inside the train, Ren shutting the door close behind them. He grumbles as he hands the wand over. “It’s too late. She has to already be a mile down the track.”

Avi groans. “Shit. I just knew something like this was going to happen.”

“Let’s just jump off this thing and go after her,” Magnus says as he flexes his mended hand.

“Brave words from a guy who just got his ass handed to him,” Lucretia says.

“Enough you two,” Davenport scolds.

Killian clears her throat. “Listen.” She blinks a few times, reorienting herself “We were, uh, trying to escort a very important item and we have to get it back.”

“We’ll help you,” Magnus says.

“No, actually. You won’t.” Killian rubs her temples. “Listen. You’re, like, _the_ Magnus Burnsides. I want your help, but this is literally the most dangerous thing ever. I can’t let you do that to yourself.”

“It has a thrall,” Ren adds as Avi bobs his head in an enthusiastic nod. “We know how to work around it, but it’ll be too dangerous for you. You have to trust us.”

Magnus presses his lips together as Lucretia quirks a brow. They look down at Davenport who twists his mustache and scuffs his foot into the carpeted floor. “We trust you guys,” he says. “We definitely don’t want to get involved with something like that. Isn’t that right, Magnus and Lucretia?”

“Sure.” Lucretia glowers as she jams her elbow into Magnus’s gut. It stops him short of spilling out the truth. He glares and coughs something that sounds like is can be an agreement. To his credit, he looks about as happy as Lucretia does.

“It’s just that our wands and belongings are on that car as well,” Davenport says.

“I’ll get them back to you. Promise,” Avi says. He pulls a flask from his pocket, shoulders dropping when he remembers it’s empty.

“Tell us if there is any way we can help—here.” Davenport plucks the wand from Lucretia’s hand, ignoring the cry she bites back in order to hand it to Ren. “You’re obviously going to need this more than us.”

Ren brightens. “Oh, thank you! That’s a massive help!”

“I’ll also get this train slowed down so that you guys can jump off now and catch up with her.”

“You also know how to operate trains?” Avi beams, sounding as though he’s uncovered a kindred spirit.

“I’m more than just a sea captain.” Davenport grins and extends a courteous hand. “Godspeed, fair adventurers.”

They shake hands, give a few last promises to save the day. When Davenport turns on his heel to leave, he jerks his head for Lucretia and Magnus to follow him. Magnus gives Killian a hearty slap on the back before letting Lucretia drag him off. They’re silent as they march down the length of the trains again. Along the way, they stumble back into the salacious wizard and the wrestling dwarf. This time, Davenport grins and gives a half-made explanation of the events before convincing both to return to their cabins. After traveling with him for a hundred years, Lucretia still forgets that Davenport was a member of their home world’s military and political sphere. His voice is light and trill, but like a sliver blade, he knows how to wield it.

Once they’re back in the engine room, Davenport immediately slides onto the chair in front of the control panel and gets to work.

Lucretia meanwhile frowns at the cooling corpses, shifting as she wonders at what at what she should do. “Poor fellows.”

Magnus slides the dagger that had been in his palm off the ground, wiping the bloodied blade on his pants leg before stuffing it into his boot.. “Hey, Dav. No offense, but what the fuck was that back there?”

“Strategy,” he replies, not looking up as he pulls a lever. The train lurches as the blurring landscape outside the window slows.

“What kind of strategy involves letting them get the monocle?”

“They’re not going to get it. That thief took the engineer’s hands because direct contact with the safe is required to open it. No one’s going to get to my monocle for at least another sixty minutes.” He turns in his chair, giving Magnus an even look. “So we’ll go in then. Any fights before are just an unnecessary risk.”

Magnus frowns. “That’s dirty.”

“They also have a way of getting around the Light’s thrall, and we need to know how.” He pauses, the final notes of his words bore into the air. “Do either of you have your Stones of Farspeeches?”

“I left mine in my luggage,” Lucretia says as Magnus mutters something similar.

“Well. Okay. That’s a hiccup. Maybe that kid has one we can borrow.”

“You mean Angus?” Lucretia pauses. “Wait. Where is he? He wasn’t in the dining car.”

“He could be in his room,” Davenport offers.

Magnus shakes his head. “A kid like that? He’d be running for the first sign of trouble.” His eyes widen. “Wait. You don’t think he snuck onto the storage car, do you?”

Lucretia says, “I mean. If he could figure it out before us—”

“He knew we made the artefacts.”

Lucretia groans. “Shit! He really did that!”

“So you’re telling me that we’re now going to have to deal with what could possibly be called a hostage situation?” Davenport demands.

Magnus bends so that he can meet Davenport at eyelevel. “Look me in the eye and tell me we’re going to abandon a seven year old in need.”

The gnome looks less than amused. “Seriously?”

“I mean, the laws of the universe generally agree that we’re required to get overly attached to any brat a quarter of our ages,” Lucretia says. “But hey. Don’t listen to me. I’m never right.”

Davenport groans. “I meant that in more of a _how dare you imply I would be so heartless_ kind of way, but okay. That works too.” He turns back to the control board and starts turning switches and hitting buttons. “I’m going to stop the train completely. If I’m right, we’ll be about two miles from where Carey’s storage car should have run out of momentum. If we hurry, we can get there before anything really bad happens.”

* * *

Stevie clutches her box of figurines close to her chest, peering through the kitchen doorway. Her mom is at the table, hands braced at the edge as she stares down at the map pined to the far corners. A red bandana pulls back her mass of hair, revealing the way she chews her lips as she waits. For what, Stevie doesn’t know.

Uncle Merle sits next to her, a hand combing through his beard as he turns his stone of farspeech in his hands. “You know they’re alright,” he says, ever mellow.

“I know that,” her mom replies, using that tone of voice Stevie only hears whenever a parent teacher meeting is called.

Merle hums, but it might actually be a grumble. It’s hard to tell when he looks sour most of the time anyways. He starts to slide off his seat, only to look up and catch Stevie’s eyes.

She gasps and goes back around the corner. She’s not sure why. No one said she couldn’t go into the kitchen.

“Stevie, I see you there,” her uncle calls out.

When Stevie peeks out again, she sees her mom looking up from the map, mouth opened in an expression she can’t name. “What’s a matter, sweetie?”

Stevie inches into the open, gripping her box tighter. She feels small standing in the doorway, and for the first time she understands what characters in books mean when they say they want to hide behind curtains of hair. Her hair—ratty curls so unused to being tamed that they mat into a thick knot on the back of her head—is in a ponytail her dad had pulled together before he left. She can still feel the ghost of his hands on the back of her neck, the echoes of his voice talking about the reason he’s leaving for the day.

Her mom stares for a heartbeat. Her eyes soften. “Are you scared for Pops right now?”

“No,” Stevie says, puffing out her chest to prove it.

Her mom looks at Merle, makes a face, before looking back. “Do you want to stay here with us anyways? Help us keep track of the map?”

“No.” Her eyes dart to every corner of the kitchen—from the rack of pots and pans over the stove to the refrigerator covered in drawings and papers. “I just, um…. Can I have some water?”

In a daze, her mom can only blink. Merle picks at his beard, a brow raised.

“Please?”

Her mom snaps back to reality. “Of course.” It only takes a few moments for her mom to fetch an old mug from the high shelf and fill it with the pitcher, handing it to her with a thin smile. Stevie guzzles it as fast as she can, ignoring the way the water splashes in her gut, before placing the empty glass next to the sink.

She runs out before her mom can tell her to wash it, the box pressed ever closer to her chest as her feet skid down the wood hallway. The voice of her mother chases after her, and Stevie can’t tell if there’s another pair of feet behind her or if her own steps echo against the walls. There’s a door a few feet ahead that’s ajar. With all the grace a ten year old can manage, she flings herself behind it and holds her ear into the hallway. Instead of the thundering footfalls of persuaders looking to drag her back to the sink, she hears bits of whatever conversation her mom and Uncle Merle are having.

“Magnus was right,” she hears her mom say. “We should’ve stayed home.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“She’s never this quiet. Or polite. Or anything.”

“She’s ten, Julia. I don’t think she even knows what’s going on in there.”

They’re talking about her, Stevie realizes. A dark feeling blooms in her gut as the sense that she’s doing something very, very wrong overwhelms her.

Stevie goes to close the door, but remembers that this isn’t her room. Turning around, she catches the sight of Merle’s little office. The mismatch pots of plants and hanging bowls of draping ferns meet her eyes. The artificial sunlight beaming through the windowpanes glitters. She’s been in her uncle’s workshop plenty of times, though never by herself. But even without Merle grumbling about, knocking aside the old books on the bookshelf in favor of a chipped jar or stray pot, there’s a kind of comfort here. A fumbling, but sincere adoration.

The door closes with a click.

Going to the middle of the room, Stevie flops cross-legged onto the ground. The sparse layer of dirt that seems to cover every surface of his coats her bare legs and stains the butt of her shorts. Not caring in the slightest, Stevie places her box onto the ground. It’s ornately carved, depicting on each side a different story—one of the Power Bear and a nation of animals, another a sea of floating voidfishes. Then a forest of mushrooms, and the last a great city with two suns hovering in the sky.

She remembers the Candlenights her dad had given it to her. Whiling sitting on his lap, she let his giant hand guide her fingers over the intricate designs. “You know I’m not from around here,” he said, his voice a deep rumbled as the firepits on the beach crackled. They’d spent that Candlenights with her uncles in Bottleneck Cove, and somewhere in the background they mingled with her mom and aunt as they tried to open a bottle of wine. “This one right here is Tusolia. That’s where I’m from. It’s gone now, but I wish I could take you there.”

“Why’s there two suns?” Stevie asked.

“Don’t know. It just does.” He paused for a moment. “The sky there is, uh, it’s this purple color. Sometimes, at dusk, the sky here almost looks the same and…” And he stopped himself, taking his hand off hers to wipe his cheeks.

Stevie traced the design again, circling the two suns in a figure eight. “Why’s the sky purple?”

And he laughed.

Even now, Stevie drags her hands over the designs. The edges are worn, and with each passing year the panorama gets blurrier. None more so than the box’s lid. On it depicts an image of herself adorned in the finest armor. Her curls are perfect like her mom’s, blowing behind her as she holds a sword high in the sky. She stands on the peak of Raven’s Roost—a victorious grin on her face as she sets off on her own adventures.

This time, she doesn’t look at the design, instead flinging the lid open as quick as she can.

Stevie pulls out her figurines one by one, lining them up for her to see. There’s more generic ones, like a tiefling baker and a orc man reading a newspaper. She has a couple of faceless soldiers she can align with whatever side she chooses, and a dragon twice the size of her hand. But her favorites are the small figures of adventurers—paladins, fighters, sorcerers, bards. They’re painted colorfully, and when she holds them close to her eyes she can see the minute details of their faces. Going deeper, she pulls out the replica of a woman knight. This one had been her favorite as a kid, and she’d insisted her dad repaint it so that the wood would match her dark skin.

Stevie places it on the ground, then remembers scenes in plays where a person would idly observe something as they think. So she picks it up again, twisting it in her hands as she tries to string the vague sensations in her head into coherency. But then all she’s doing is thinking too hard about thinking, and she has to stop.

She finishes emptying the box and gets to work setting the scene. There’s a never ending story she crafts when she plays. Always she is the woman knight joined by her adventuring party as they set off to defeat some evil. Sometimes it’s a dragon or a corrupt king. But in the past few months leading up to Midsummer, a move of childhood brilliance made her new arch enemy the swirling mass of the Hunger.

She imagines that it comes to her home, and it kidnaps her dad and mom. In her mind, she learns that her dad was secretly the king of Tusolia and she its long lost princess. Prophecy decrees that only she can push back against the encroaching evil, rescuing not only this world but all the others previously lost.

The figurines are lined up, waiting to resume the story.

In her mind, she does what her dad never could. The day will be saved, and everyone will be happy, and it will all be a lot of fun even if the final battle is barely won. But what is a good legend if not one with a little tragedy?

Stevie picks up the figure of the woman knight, then that of a human man—the villain, her enemy. The Hunger. Her story is built around the picture of his malicious smile and the maniacal laughter of a demon incarnated, but for reasons she can’t explain, it all feels fake. No one has ever told her what he’s like, but she knows that Merle grumbles about him the way he grumbles about a lot of people. A lot of people aren’t true evil.

Holding the figurines on her lap, she looks up at the gentle sway of the hanging plants. She imagines her dad coming back with one less hand, or the black wall of the Hunger swallowing Raven’s Roost whole. She thinks about adventurers and two-sunned planets, lost princesses and purple skies. She thinks and thinks. Worst of all, she doesn’t play. The story no longer feels fun.

* * *

“Here.” The hiss of Magnus’s voice barely makes it through the air. From where the train stopped to where the storage car ended up down the track, he kept a consistent pace in front of Lucretia and Davenport. He’s not as fast as he used to be, age being the primary factor, and his ankles hate him for trekking on the other side of the forest line instead of the smooth ground along the track. But the foliage gives them cover and, as he gets a moment to catch his breath, he’s grateful for it. From the bits and pieces of the scene he can see through the leaves and bushes, he can tell that this is one he’s going to want to element of surprise.

Lucretia and Davenport join him behind the bush, crouching on the ground as they pant. “Good work,” Davenport says, his nice shirt and vest soak through with sweat. He places his hand on his chest and groans. “ _Gods_.”

Lucretia peeks over the bush and frowns. “Oh balls.”

They’re fifty yards away—far enough away that they can’t be heard. The first thing Lucretia notices is that Ren, Avi, and Killian aren’t fighting. The three are standing stalk still, their hands raised in the air in defeat. They don’t look badly beaten, which drag’s Lucretia’s attention to Carey. She’s standing at the entrance of the storage car, scales glinting in the sunlight as she holds a almost calm Angus McDonald to her chest. One of her knives is tucked under his chin, and he tilts his head away from it with eyes blown wide. Carey taps her foot, occasionally glancing back to check up on the safe through the car’s open door.

“She probably has the hands on it right now,” Magnus says. “How much longer do we have?”

Davenport pulls out a gold pocket watch and clicks it open. “Less than ten minutes.”

“Let me think.” Magnus squints as if it’ll help.

Lucretia gawks at the watch. “Wait. Is that Jenkins’?”

“He’s not going to use it anymore,” Davenport says, tucking it back into his own pocket.

“You were the one telling us to not do illegal things, _Davenport.”_

“Are you going to take me to the militia then?” He waves her off. “How’s the plan coming along, Burnsides?”

“Well, my brain is doing that thing where it feels like it’s just another cycle and tactical dying is an option,” Magnus replies, wringing his hands. “But I think I got something.”

“Is it the double trouble maneuver?” Lucretia asks.

“Plus the team carry.”

“We’ve never done that without the twins.”

Magnus claps his hands—not too loud, else the dragonborn rogue might hear. “Well. We’re gonna have to try. I’ll be Lup. Who wants Taako?”

“I’ll team carry,” Davenport says.

Lucretia frowns. “Sure. Make me the bait when I’m the only one who’s gonna be able to heal your asses when this is done.”

“Spoken like a true Taako.” Magnus grins. He bends onto his knee, jerking the dagger he stole from Carey from his boot. “Alright, Triple T. Get into position.”

* * *

When the watch ticks down to three minutes before the safe should be open, Lucretia steps out of the foliage. Carey sees her instantly, eyes darting to the human with the ripped skirt walking to the line of hostages before the storage car. With a frown thick on her face, Lucretia holds both palms high in the air, trying to appear as meek as possible.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Carey says, grinning as she holds Angus a little tighter. The ten year old makes a small noise as the knife moves a bit, but otherwise seems unharmed. In fact, Lucretia can see the way his eyes flit in every direction, searching for her co-conspirators. Smart kid.

“I don’t think that’s how that phrase should be used,” Lucretia replies.

Avi, Killian, and Ren are giving her each a unique look of utter confusion. Avi seems downright dumbstruck while Killian’s brows knit as she tries to figure out where this is going. Jenkins’ wand is on the grass a few feet from Ren—thrown from a demand to unarm herself. The holographic swirl of colors dance under the sunlight, clearly defined against the flat grass.

Taking this all in, Lucretia positions herself next to them, ready to spring for the wand at any given moment. She narrows her eyes on Carey, refusing to look anywhere near where Davenport and Magnus are lurking.

“You’re in the middle of a hostage situation right now,” Carey replies. “And you’re really gonna debate idioms?”

“I mean, to each their own, but this is your big dramatic villain speech,” Lucretia replies. “I just wanna make sure whatever one you give is perfect.”

Unamused, Carey ‘s gaze skirts over the landscape. “Where’s your friends?”

“You wouldn’t believe the truth.”

“Try me.”

“Well. Davenport was too much of a coward to try to lend these guys—” She jerks her head towards Avi’s gang. “—a hand and Magnus is all _honor_ and _we promised to let them handle it themselves.”_

“Uh-huh,” Carey says.

“Swear to every god on this planar system.”

She rolls her neck, bones cracking as a kink is kneaded away. “And you’re here because?”

“My stuff is in there.” Lucretia points at the car, then has to prevent herself from wincing. Davenport is supposed to be sneaking in from behind. The last thing she wants is for Carey to turn around in time to see his gnome butt squeezing his way inside. Luckily, Carey’s yellow eyes are attach to Lucretia, dissecting every minute twitch of the face for any sign of what’s really going on. “And it’s really important too. I’m actually on a quest of my own right now.”

“Yeah, I don’t care.”

“My friend’s been missing for ten years,” she insists, but she knows it’s no use. She only wants an opportunity to bring up Taako by name around Ren so that the drow can tell her what she knows without blowing their cover (or worse, exposing Barry’s link back to them).

“Yikes. “Carey grimaces. “See here, I _really_ don’t care so you can just shut up now.”

“I can help look for your friend, Miss!” Angus pipes.

Carey jerks him, drawing the knife closer to the column of his neck. “Shut it, kid.”

Angus squeaks and gives Lucretia a very obvious wink. Lucretia almost grins. Clever kid. Carey may have killed Jenkins and the engineer, but she’s hesitating to take out anyone else. Her malicious side, it seems, only runs so deep.

“So.” Lucretia smiles thinly. “How about that villain speech? What’s your motivations for all this?”

“You’re really aren’t going to stop with that.” Cary mulls over it for a moment. “Fine, but after that you’re going to shut up or else I’ll make you.”

“I wait with bated breath.”

“I’m a rogue. I got bills to pay. I got someone who really wants that Oculus. I’m hired, I get the damn thing, and I get to not worry about rent for a year while enjoying a dirt cheap but delicious hotdog.”

“Huh,” Lucretia says. She ponders it for a moment. “I think your speech needs a little more work. It’s a bit crazy and kinda makes me wonder if you’re seeing double.”

At the cue (which makes more sense when Taako and Lup do it), Magnus leaps from his perch high up in the nearest tree. His dagger is in his hands, the branished as he aims the tip for Carey’s face. He yells as he comes down, and Carey looks up in time to realize what’s going to happen. She pushes Angus away, the poor boy stumbling into the storage car, and raises her down dagger up to meet his.

The blades clash against each other for a moment before the rest of Magnus’s body catches up. His two-hundred-something mass crushes the dragonborn, knocking the wind right out of her.

Lucretia dives onto the ground, wrapping her hand around Jenkins’ wand. Rolling until she faces the car, Lucretia has it aimed and ready right as Carey kicks Magnus off. He seems dazed—the fall from that great of a height can only be done with a sufficient amount of style by a wizard elf who can break her fall with a well-placed spell. Lucretia pushes some hair out of her face before casting _magic missile._ Bolts of blue magic bursts from the wand, zigzagging through the air.

The first one hits Carey’s shoulder, causing her to hiss in pain. She jumps and does a quick flip, causing the other four bolts to careen into the side of the train car and miss Magnus’s dizzy form by inches. When she lands on her feet, she sees Lucretia scrambling to get onto hers as Avi, Killian, and Ren take it as their cue to help out with the fight. Killian leads in the charge, cracking her knuckles as she readies for a fight.

“Fuck,” Carey says before diving backwards into the storage car. She kicks the door shut, and the heavy iron slams with finality. With a quick jerk of the bar, it’s locked into place. Carey takes a few steps back as the orc on the other side bangs her fists into it. Time to scram.

When she turns, she sees Angus crouching by the chest of weapons—a few unfolded paperclips jammed into the lock as he tries to pick it. His brows are up in his curls. His lip slips into the gap in his front teeth as he waits for a repercussion. But Carey can’t focus on him.

The gnome is at the safe in the middle of the car. A small window on the other end of the car is opened, and he’s pushed a piece of luggage next to the safe to stand on. His hand rests on top of it, next to the two amputated limbs still leaking with blood. He watches the last bits of the magic sealing it shut become undone.

“You…” she starts, but stops. The safe glows a soft gold, burning away the streak of blood that fell down its sides. The lid slides open, pushing the two hands off and Davenport reaches inside. Carey barks a laugh. “You want it too.”

“Naturally.” He pulls out a small chest the side of a human man’s palm.

Carey wants it.

She needs it.

With no hesitation, she pulls out another dagger from its sheath on the small of her back and throws it. Davenport gets a moment to realize what’s about to happen before pain explodes around his chest. He yells and drops the chest. It clanks to the ground as he braces himself at the edge of the safe.

The door to the car bursts open to reveal Lucretia armed with her stolen wand with Killian, Avi, and Ren flanking. Magnus is on his feet—green around the gills but overall okay. She sees the dropped chest and the hand Davenport clutches to the knife embedded in his sternum.

“Dav!” Magnus yells as Lucretia casts another round of _magic missile._

They hit Carey square in the chest, rocketing her across the car. She crashes into a pile of luggage that sends even more cases toppling on top of her.

“Get our weapons,” Lucretia tells the people behind her before rushing in. Or at least, she tries to. She takes two steps before feeling a hand grab the back of her blouse. When she turns, she sees Avi.

His free hand is pressed to his ear. “The thrall,” he says.

Lucretia looks at Magnus. He has the same dumbfounded expression as her, standing awkwardly to the side as he watches Ren stumble backwards with distant eyes and Killian grip the doorframe with white knuckles. “Uh, too smart for that shit,” she says.

She can feel how weak of an explanation it is, but however the thrall feels like, it’s wretched enough to make Avi bob his head. “Fine, fine. Our headphones. They’re in the chest.”

Lucretia sees where Angus is kneeling. The kid looks a little shaken, but he’s focusing all of his energy on the lock on the chest instead of whatever the thrall demands he does. “Move,” she says, and he dodges out of the way in time for her unlocking spell to hit.

Angus pops the chest open, and when Lucretia sees that he’s looking for the headphones, she runs over to Davenport, already charging up her healing spell. Magnus sprints into the car and starts rummaging through the chest for his weapon.

“Are these, um, _headphones_?" Angus holds up three pairs of what looks like headbands with circular cushions at the ends.

“Definitely, kid,” Magnus answers without thinking. He finds Lucretia and Davenport’s wands, and he tosses them in their direction. He doesn’t need to look to know they caught them. He finds his ax and slings it onto his back. All that’s left inside is a sword, a crossbow, and an umbrella. He scoops them into his arms.

Angus has distributed each pair of headphones to the three affected by the thrall. The second the cushions are over Avi’s ears, the human relaxes. He’s upright and strong by the time Magnus brings over the armful of weapons. “The sword’s mine,” he says, taking the sheathed weapon. He holds it for a long moment, swallows, then draws out the polished blade.

Magnus hands the crossbow to Killian without prompt, earning a hard pat on the back. “I believe this is yours,” he says to Ren, shifting the umbrella in his arm until he can get his hand around the hooked handle.

Sparks jump around his palm. Magnus pauses. He knows a little magic. He couldn’t have lived on a ship with six magical geniuses for a hundred years without picking up a few things. He couldn’t have made the Temporal Chalice without having what Taako would call a third grader’s understanding of magic. But he can tell that there’s something about this umbrella that’s not right. Whatever it is, it feels familiar.

“Thank you so kindly.” Ren takes the umbrella from him and, like that, the feeling is gone.

A large, leather-bound case flies through the air, banging into the iron ceiling before crashing inches from where Lucretia holds Davenport in her arms, the tip of her wand glowing as magic sews his wound shut. Carey springs from the rumble, landing on her feet in a blaze of fury. A bit of blood drips from her snout, and she drags her hand over her lips to clean it. Her yellow eyes see the small chest at Davenport’s feet, and her pupils dilate.

Carey lunges.

She swipes her claws at Lucretia, and the human holds Davenport close to her chest as she falls away—the red vivid against her dark skin. Carey dives and gets her hands around the chest in an instant, but a scream rips through her. A bolt of a crossbow sticks out of her shoulder, and dark blood oozes around it. But through the pain, Carey growls and scratches at the lock, desperate to unleash the monocle lying inside.

Magnus looks from where Carey is feral to Killian loading another bolt into her crossbow. A bolt of magic charges at the tip of Ren’s umbrella, one that he knows is going to be deadly.

He grinds his teeth and darts to the side, grabbing the tip of the umbrastaff. He feels the gathering magic burn his palm, and he grunts as he jerks it upwards. Ren’s spell hits the ceiling, bursting in a useless array of purple light. He swings an arm into the side of her head, sending her crashing into Killian, disrupting the orc's aim. The bolt embeds into the ground, barely missing the tips of Angus’s penny loafers.

“Sorry!” Magnus says right before punching Avi. The guy is so unused to any fight that it sends him reeling. His sword crashes to the ground, and he hardly notices Magnus wretching the pair of headphones off his head.

Magnus only needs three large steps to reach Carey, and the moment he’s before her, he slips the pair of headphones over her ears.

At once, the lure of the thrall dissipates.

She relaxes, blinking as reality settles over her once again. She looks at where she is on the ground, then up at where Magnus is kneeling. The slightest hint of a smile creeps onto her lips. “Thanks, pal.”

Then she kicks him.

He reels backwards, cursing as pain bursts around his nose.

Carey jumps onto her feet, holding the chest triumphantly. “Sayonara, folks!” And, from the bag at her side, she pulls out a card. She swipes a bit of blood off her wounded shoulder and presses it to the seal in the middle. The air around her spirals, winding kicking up debris and dust as she fazes out of sight.

And, like that, she disappears.

For a moment, all any of them can do is stare.

“Damnit all!” Killian marches over to Magnus. She grabs the collar of his shirt, yanking him half way to his feet so that she can look him in his eyes. “We had her there, Burnsides!”

“You were going to kill her!” he shoots back, spitting when the blood gushing from his nose gets into his mouth. He knows it's broken, and he can already hear the way Julia’s going to tease him for that one.

“We didn’t have a choice,” Killian says. “No one can resist that thing’s thrall.”

“I can. And look—once you start sharing one of those headphone things, whatever they do, she can too!”

“Well, congrats then! Cause you’re one hundred percent the reason she got away.”

“Good! I’m glad!”

“That’s enough, Killian.” Avi stumbles to her side, easing a hand onto her bicep.

“Yeah.” And Ren’s on her other side. Half of her silvery hair is out of it’s braid, frizzling around her head in a halo “What’s done is done and ain’t nothing going to change it now.”

Killian looks ready to explode into more yelling, but she groans and complies. She drops Magnus, and he lands with an inelegant thud. “Fine,” she says over his whining “ow.”

“Actually…” And Davenport is struggling to his feet. He’s pale—the stab wound at his collar bone not yet fully healed. He sways in his place as he holds a hand over it. “I hate to say this, but that was literally the dumbest ass thing you could’ve done right there.”

Magnus throws his arms into the air. “Oh come on!”

“Give him a break.” Lucretia’s still on the floor. Angry red lines draw across her face, and she idly points her wand between them and the wound at Davenport’s chest—unsure which to heal first. Each movement of the face causes her to wince, but she says her peace nonetheless. “We all would’ve done the same. And besides, we need to figure out where she went and fast before it gets into the wrong hands.” She pauses, rethinking her backstory. “I mean, can whatever was that thing inside the chest be put into the wrong hands?”

“Yes,” Avi, Killian, and Ren chorus.

They’re not doing a good job picking up on our mistakes, Lucretia thinks as she heaves herself back onto her feet. She gets Davenport to turn his focus away from everything long enough for her to start her healing spell once again. He’s going to have a nasty scar on his chest, and the area is going to be sensitive while the rest of his body catches up.

“Um, excuse me?” Angus McDonald is still standing in his little corner. He bounces with a newfound energy, the glasses on his nose sliding down a little. He pushes them back up and smiles. “Not to be a bragger since my grandpa says that bragging is something only ignorant people do, but I am—and please believe me when I say it—the world’s greatest detective. And I can tell you exactly where she went.”

They stare. “What?”

“No way,” Magnus says, causing Angus to pout.

“It’s true! And I can prove it!” He takes a deep breath and, in one long, ramble: “She said that she was hired by someone to get the Oculus. Whoever hired her would not only have to have a substantial amount of money to afford her services, but also a reason for wanting something like that. Assuming that there is no coup d’état looming on the horizon, I can deduce that they’re a curator of rare magical items, which would explain why he’d want something like the Oculus. It’s a rare valuable that anyone would pay a high price for—”

“Uh….” Magnus exchanges a look with everyone else across the car. “You’re point?”

Angus catches his breath, and starts again. “She said she was going to buy reasonably priced, but delicious hotdogs. And there’s only one place you can only go to if you have some kind of membership card that requires the use of a blood sigil.”

Angus grins. “And it’s called Fantasy Costco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't particularly like this chapter as much since it really is just a transition into what the final chapter of the oculus arc is going to be (and let me tell you, it's a gonna be a wild ride to read). I'm a little proud of the Stevie interlude though, even though it was the product of me realizing that since I cut her scene in chapter 4, I needed to do a new one before her subplot can really get started.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read this and decided that they liked it enough to continue onwards. The support I've seen has been incredible, especially for that last chapter. I'm honestly just a little bit speechless, but please know that I appreciate and cry over every single one. Thank you so very much!
> 
> So the next chapter might come a little sooner than the rest. The final fight is really, really long and it's at 10K words right now, so I might split it up into two parts instead. I think the pacing works better as one whole chapter, but if you guys would be interested in getting a quicker but smaller update, please say so! Your wish is my command!
> 
> Also I changed up the summary for the fic so that it's less bad. Tell me what you think!
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!!! xxoxxxo


	9. In Which Davenport Reclaims His Monocle (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes arrive at Fantasy Costco, but will they make it before someone else gets the oculus? Merle gets an unwelcome invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: violence and graphic blood, but it's nothing beyond what the McElroys do. 
> 
> Also, as a note: the author has not consulted the DND handbook for any information regarding spells and worldbuilding. If it's not mentioned explicitly in the podcast, I'm just going to do whatever I want with it.

There is only one Fantasy Costco in the entirety of Faerun. With its warehouse stock and ability to cater to any kind of need—magical prescriptions for any ailment, rare artefacts you can only find in dreams, a bulk supply of Fantasy Kirkland fruit snacks—it’s the go-to place for any adventurer young and old. Even Lucretia used to have a membership with them, though she ended her subscription once she realized she never bought enough supplies in bulk to warrant the annual fee. Normally, having one supersize store for an entire continent would be less than ideal, but that’s where the genius of the membership cards is truly realized.

Unlike its competitors, Fantasy Costco is located in a pocket dimension with it's the physical entrance located in scenic Neverwinter (this physical entrance is wholly unnecessary, but the land's laws decree all shops must have some kind of storefront on the material plane if they did not want to be levied with an inter-planar trade tax) (the fact that this tax was created for the express purpose of ensuring churches won't sell their followers things they claim are from the celestial plane is besides the point) . With a little blood magic, anyone from anywhere can step through its doors and peruse the warehouse for all their goods and needs. Even in a place as remote as the Teeth—the mountain range crawling down the side of Faerun’s eastern coast, forever separating Rockport from the capital city of Neverwinter—anyone can still rest easy knowing they can purchase a one hundred pack of toilet paper at a reasonable price at any time.

It’s by sheer luck Angus happens to already have a membership with them.

“It’s technically not mine,” he explains, pulling the card from a small leather wallet in his back pocket. It looks like any other card with the store’s logo on one side and an ancient sigil on the other. “It’s my grandpa’s, but he doesn’t use it anymore, and I find it very helpful in my detecting to be able to get new supplies or even double check a clue whenever I can.”

“And you’ll take us there?” Magnus asks. He mingles with Avi, Killian, and Ren; stepping out of the storage car and into the abandoned stretch of track. With his hands deep in his pockets and his ax strapped to his back, he gives the kid a gentle but stern look that makes Angus stand a little straighter.

“Of course, sir,” he says. “This is important, and I would never impede an investigation.”

“Great. So, listen.” Magnus turns to Avi. “Whatever thrall is on that thing doesn’t have any effect on us. So there’s like no reason why we can’t just help you gets get it.”

“You let her go,” Killian deadpans.

“Fair, but Lucretia and Davenport didn’t.”

“And for all we know, the thrall really is affecting you,” Avi says, starting to pace through his nervousness. “You could maybe only want to help us because you want it that badly.”

“I’m telling you we’re just too stupid for that thing to work on us!”

And so, they argue.

Still inside the storage car, Lucretia finishes patching together Davenport’s wound. She knows she should take a rest and let her magical energy recharge, but there’s not enough time in the universe. Keeping Davenport pin to his spot with a heavy hand, she continues forcing his muscles to stitch back together. “Almost done,” she says.

“Are you going to have enough spell slots left for this next fight?” Davenport asks, tugging down the collar of his shirt a bit lower to give her more space to work with.

“I have pedestrian medical supplies in my luggage, if need be.” She starts mending the skin, trying to best to minimize scarring. With how deep the wound is and the amount of energy she has to conserve, it’s more likely he’s going to have a hot line of raised skin down his collar for a long time. “Please tell me you have a plan.”

“There really isn’t much to plan for.” He turns to look at where Magnus is now juggling an argument with Avi and Killian while Ren flip-flops back and forth between whose side she agrees with. “I think we’re just going to have to use brute force.”

“What if they think we’re the bad guys?” Lucretia demands. “Barry’ll pay for it.”

“They already think we’re bad.” Feeling the healing spell come to an end, he pulls his shirt back up and shrugs her hand off. “Grab the stone and call the ship. Tell them to stay near Neverwinter until I say otherwise, but be ready to leave at any given moment.”

She snorts. “Aye, captain.”

She rises to her feet, dodging his arm when he swings it in a large stretch. She finds their luggage beneath a pile, and she pulls out each one with a knitted brow. How Merle can cope with someone who blocks everyone out whenever he’s stressed is a mystery to her. Despite being a great albeit nervous public speaker, he has no aptitude for using those words on himself. It takes a twisted arm to get him to spit out even the simplest _I feel_ statement. She frown deepens. Not only does he not know how to use his words, but unlike Taako, there’s no body language to decode. He just clamps up and doesn’t understand why everyone else gets worried.

Clicking the first case open, Lucretia sees the bright splash of red cloth. She gasps and slams it shut. “Shit.” She opens the other two—Magnus’s duffle bag and Davenport’s miniature case—and discovers two jackets of a similar make. “Davenport!”

He stumbles to her side, and she lifts the lid high enough for him to see the problem. “Shit,” he says.

“Why are we so stupid?” she asks, voice no louder than a hiss. “We’re literally the cream of the crop—the smartest people from a technomagically advance planar system. Why do we do this to ourselves?”

“It’s fine,” he tells her, flicking his wand at the red uniforms. Their vivid hues evaporate, dulling and darkening until they’re unremarkable shades of brown. “It’s an illusion. That’ll probably last the rest of the day, but we better hope to Istus that no one casts _true sight_ on us.”

“We are not made to last.”

“Just call Merle already.”

Davenport and Lucretia exit the train a few minutes later, both wearing their illusioned uniforms. Her robe is a dreary gray tone brown that makes her feel older than she really is. A satchel full of supplies is across her chest, and she heaves Magnus’s duffle bag over her shoulder. “Here,” she says, shoving it in his direction.

Magnus stops mid-sentence, a small noise escaping him when he sees not only her robe, but the ratty sailor’s jacket on Davenport’s frame. He recovers quickly. “I’m just saying,” he says, trying to continue his point as he opens his duffle bag. His own uniform is in a similar state of inconspicuousness, and he only scrunches his brows at it for a moment before pulling it on. Then he turns his duffle bag upside down and lets his supplies shower onto the tracks. “Carey knows now what the headphones do. She’s going to try and knock them off, and then you guys are going to be useless. You need us.”

“Wow,” Killian replies. “And who’s fault is that?”

“Not mine!” Magnus shoots to his feet, strapping his belt covered his weapons and bag of holdings around his hips. “You guys brought them up first!”

“He has a point there,” Ren says, earning a frustrated groan from both Killian and Avi.

Angus watches Magnus pull a plate of armor onto his chest, humming as he holds his chin in his fingers. He looks at where Ren swings the hook of her umbrella around her finger while Avi keeps patting his pocket for a flask he knows is empty. “Actually, sir? I’ll only bring you to Fantasy Costco on one condition.”

“What?” Avi says, sounding a little closer to death.

Angus points at the three birds. “You have to bring them along.” Before any objection can be heard, he folds his hands nicely in front of himself. “This all sounds very dangerous, and I’m only a little boy. They said they were going to take care of me on the train, so they should get to take care of me now.”

Davenport smiles while Lucretia holds a hand over her mouth.

Magnus squats until he’s Angus’s height, clasping both hands on his shoulders. “Thanks, champ.” He gives a solid pat on the back before reaching down for his shield on the ground. He misses the way Angus beams, raising his chin a little higher.

Avi and Killian exchange a look, sharing a silent argument between themselves. Then Avi shrugs. “Alright.” He extends his hand to Magnus. “But just a warning. Fall victim, and we probably might have to kill you.”

“That’s fair.” And the two clasp hands.

* * *

Angus pricks the pad of his thumb. “Okay,” he says, voice wavering as he holds up the membership card. “Everyone ready?”

He gets an unenthused chorus of “yeah sure”s and mumbles of weak acceptations.

Angus takes a deep breath, holding his bleeding thumb before his eyes as if he has to aim. “Then let’s do this.” With as much determination as a kid his age can manage, he presses his thumb onto his card’s sigil, letting the blood gather before smearing it across.

It takes a breath, but then the sigil glows a bright green. Light cracks through the lines, reaching upwards in a blinding ray.

Crossing into a pocket dimension feels the same as crossing into a new plane of reality—but that in of itself is an experience everyone feels differently. To Lucretia, it feels like the corner piece of a puzzle being forced into the center of a different set, all of her cardboard corners mashed into rounded lines of different colors. Magnus always feels woozy, as if he’s had so many drinks that the alcohol has no other choice than to drain out of his ears and nose. All the while, Davenport is positive his brain liquefies every time, swooshing around his cranium until magnets pull his gray matter back into a solid mass.

Their everything slaps into the new dimension, and their heads right.

An obnoxious jingle chimes over their heads, and a pair of glass doors leading out to the bustling streets of Neverwinter slide shut behind them.

The warehouse seems endless, stretching before them in a swath of gray disrupted by industrial shelves taller than any building, the orange metal teeming with boxed goods. Shoppers of every kind push carts and flatbeds through the aisles, piling high more goods than they could ever hope to use. Fans bigger than any man whirl silently over them, and the faint scent of dust and greasy pizza fill the air.

A half-orc employee armed with a highlighter waves at them as he checks through the items on an elf’s loaded cart. “Welcome to Fantasy Costco,” he says, before startling at the sight of all their injuries, Magnus’s broken nose the most prominent.

Magnus, covered in blood and the first to regain his bearings, grins and gives a hearty wave. “Hail and well met!”

“Alright, Angus,” Avi says, placing a tentative hand on the side of his sword. “We’re here. Where do you think she went?”

He places a small hand on his chin. “ _Hm_ , It’s hard to say.”

“We should split up,” Killian says.

“I don’t have headphones,” Avi replies.

Magnus leans back towards Lucretia and Davenport. “Should we ditch these guys and just look ourselves?” he hisses.

“Look who’s being dirty now,” Davenport says.

“Hey, just brainstorming.”

Lucretia rolls her eyes and marches past them, coming up to the half-orc with the highlighter. “Excuse me, sir?” He beams a hearty customer service smile when she talks, through his attention is half-focused on the new flatbed piled high with various shields and healing potions he has to double check. “Did a dragonborn woman come through her recently? Blue scales, kinda slight?”

“Um,” the half-orc replies. He eyes the angry red scratches crossing her face.

“We had to park the wagon, so she went ahead to make sure they didn’t run out the stuff we need. She left her stone of farpseech with us, so…”

“Oh yeah.” He points to the long counter at the opposite end of the store, the one built into the wall past all the other free standing registers. “She went that way.”

Ren appears at Lucretia’s side, her umbra staff resting on her shoulder as her hand sticks to her hip. “Was she doing alright?”

When the half-orc gets nervous again, Lucretia adds, “She gets anxious in crowded spaces and puts on a strong face and everything.”

It’s a suitable excuse. “I mean, she definitely seemed a bit off. Like, she was in a hurry and I didn’t see much, but _something_ felt off about her.”

Lucretia smiles and thanks him. She takes Ren’s arm and guides her back to the rest of the group. With a jerk of the head, she indicates where they’re going before leading the pack forward. “The thrall’s still there, but like I think she moved fast enough that it hasn’t really caught on to anyone yet.”

“As far as I can tell, there’s no sign of any major fight,” Angus says. He frowns as he scrutinizes the floor. “But what exactly are we looking for? Scorch marks? Icicles?”

“How about illusions made real,” Killian says.

Angus jumps, stumbling a bit when he has to catch up with the adults’ long strides. “The Oculus! You’re actually going after the Grand Relics?”

In an instant, Killian whips around and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Pipe it down, kid. Do you want everyone here to know it?”

He digs his fingers under her hand and pries it off. “I’m ten, Miss! I could murder a man and no one would care!”

Magnus retraces back a few steps, until he’s standing next to Killian. “C’mon guys,” he says.

“No. Not c’mon.” Angus gestures between the tables of free samples to the stands displaying the latest weaponry. “They need to get out. The Oculus is the most dangerous of any of the rumored Grand Relics.”

Killian sighs. “Yes, I know that.”

Davenport drifts to the space between Magnus and Angus, studying the furrow in between the kid’s brows. “It’s what?”

“All the other relics are limited by something. The philosopher’s stone can only transform things. The Phoenix Fire Gauntlet only destroys. But the Oculus is literally only limited your shitty imagination.”

“Language,” Magnus says.

“Sorry, but it’s the truth. If you can think it, the Oculus can do it.”

Some of the tension leaves Killian’s shoulders. She glances back at where the rest are waiting for them to catch up and shrugs. “If we hurry, we won’t have anything to worry about. So let’s go.”

Magnus claps a hand on Angus’s shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “We got this,” he says, before urging the boy onward.

For the first few feet, Angus digs his heels into the concrete. His lip curls in what can only be described as a pout, but it’s far from infantile. He’s expression is dark, and he sends sharp glances at the surroundings. As Magnus pushes him further, he meets Davenport’s eyes.

Ashen face, the gnome tugs at the end of his mustache. Eyes search the horizon as if they can give him an answer to a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. When he notices Angus, really notices him as something more than a blur in his vision, his lip trembles with words that want to be spoken. But, in the end, he’s wordless.

Angus suspects. Then he understands.

He doesn’t know what to do with this information. He gawks for longer than he should, a clot plugging his throat. Angus is smart. He knows he’s only ten and doesn’t understand everything about the world. He knows there are things he’ll only comprehend when he’s eleven and things he forgot the moment he stopped being nine. And he knows Davenport is big in a way he can’t handle, that there’s a history of power at his fingertips Angus can only begin to imagine.

It scares him.

He picks up his pace and scurries to the front of the pack.

And Davenport brings it up from the rear, hunched and pensive.

* * *

 

It’s not the sensation of peace—the olive branch extended, the arrows thrown to the side. Instead, it’s the blunt edge of a knife driven through flesh, cold but warming with blood . A slap in the face that sends one reeling backwards into a pit of spikes. He sees the corners of his vision rot, the edges of the kitchen tearing away into a swirling, metallic mass of darkness.

Merle is a smart man, even if he doesn’t consider himself one. He grips the edges of the table, rejecting the pull of a twisted mimicry of parley. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut, only distantly feeling Julia’s hands on his back as he fights it against the force.

 _We’re not talking,_ he tells the encroaching lull of John. He can feel the man somewhere, distances beyond comprehension away—the other side of existence perhaps—startled before frowning. _Piss off, bastard._

And, with that, he sends a small prayer to Pan. It’s answered at once, and a holy glow engulfs his mind. The Hunger— _John—_ retreats a fast as he came, scurrying back into the corners like a hoard of cockroaches.

Merle takes a deep breath before opening his eyes. His chest hurts, and his hand clutches his breast as he pants. Julia’s face is in his, her eyes wide. “What the hell is that?” she asks, the light from the window heightening the warm hues of her skin. “You were fading in and out, like your body disappeared.”

He pushes her away none too kindly, grumbling as he hops out of his chair. “’s nothing.” He waddles to the cooler and pulls out a bottle of liquor. His head feels noisy, as if every fiber of himself is vomiting away the lingering trances of the unhallowed. “Just a headache.”

* * *

Before them is a solidary counter, lined with a display of the most valuable items available at Fantasy Costco. Davenport forces his brain back on duty, realigning himself away from the encroaching horror of what his ambition may lead to. There’s a door behind the counter, one that must lead into a backroom. Without much argument, Avi swings his lanky leg over the counter and hops onto the other side. He presses a finger to his mouth, and they all fall suit with as little noise as possible.

Davenport gets both arms onto the counter, but wheezes when he can scarcely get his toes off the ground. Magnus lifts Angus onto the counter, letting the kid scoot his way onto the other side before holding his hands out for the gnome. Davenport frowns, but let’s Magnus pick him up and place him on the other side.

He pushes to the front of the group, feeling Magnus at his back and Avi at his side. He looks up, meets Avi’s eyes, and gives a firm nod. An uncertain look crosses Avi’s face, twitching the corner of his mouth into his beard, but he takes a steadying breath and turns the knob. The door swings open.

Inside, the walls are adorned with various framed certificates with gold plaques explaining their origins. Arranged in neat rows and columns, they create a grid with the white-wash walls leading inwards to a grand desk. Stacks of wizard books make precarious towers, and parchments cover the wood in ink-stained sheets. Standing before the desk is Carey, her claws outstretched as she accepts a large sack that is surely filled with gold. She looks exhausted, but the thin lips of her snout is stretched into a smirk aimed at the being behind the desk.

Davenport can’t even look at the being without getting a headache. Without the purple hooded robe drawn over what must be its head, there’s no real form to it. The hands holding the Oculus’s chest might be paws, and the face looking up at them might be consumed by a grin. It shifts from being every color of the rainbow to none at all as the being snatches the chest fully into its grasp. It doesn’t have a voice, but when it speaks the world twists and bends. “THIS IS AN EMPLOYEES ONLY AREA!”

“How are you doing that with your mouth?” Lucretia says.

Davenport holds up his wand. “You’re going to have to hand over that chest. Or else.”

The being gasps, offended. “WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I’LL GIVE THIS UP SO EASILY?”

Magnus and Killian both take steps forward. They block Avi from the chest as the poor guy sheaths his sword and covers his ears against the thrall. “It’s seven against two,” Killian says.

Carey raises her hands. “Whoa there. I got what I wanted, so I’m bailing on this whole mess.”

“You could always, y’know, lend us a hand and redeem yourself,” Magnus says.

Carey crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s an idea…”

“Wait!” Little Angus pushes to the front of the crowd, nearly knocking over Davenport in the process. His eyes widen at the sight of the chest, and the color drains from his complexion. Davenport tightens his grip on his wand, tensing as he waits for Angus to fall victim to the pull of the relic. Instead, the kid swallows and gets a grip. “I just. Well, sir, you’re Garfield the Deals Warlock, aren’t you?”

The being chortles with joy. “MMMMMM YES I AM! ALWAYS HERE TO ENGAGE IN A BATTLE OF MERCANTILE WITS.”

“Kid, what are you doing?” Davenport hisses, feeling something dangerous grow in the air.

“Establishing motive, sir.” Angus looks the being straight at where the eyes would be, then winces. “So, like. Man. Dude. Thing. What’s your deal? Why would you of all things want the Oculus?”

“MMMMMM IT’S SIMPLY REALLY. WITH THE OCULUS I CAN MAKE NEW MERCHANDISING FOR MY STORE. I’LL BE THE MOST SUCCESSFUL MERCHANT IN ALL THE REALMS.”

“Seriously?” Magnus groans, turning to look at Lucretia and Davenport. “This is our villain?”

Lucretia hums. “Maybe the real thrall was the capitalism we discovered along the way.”

“You two are literally killing me,” Davenport says.

“Hey!” Ren jams two fingers into her mouth and whistles a sharp note. “Not to be that drow, but remember what I said earlier about being blasé? _Hm_? Do you recall?”

“YES I HAVE TO AGREE! I’M HERE JUST TRYING TO MAKE A LIVING AND YOU GUYS AREN’T TAKING ME SERIOUSLY.”

Magnus and Lucretia give out a few half-hearted apologies, but Davenport only narrows his gaze. “Fine. Give us the Oculus.”

And Killian steps forward, raising her crossbow until the bolt is aimed at where the center of Garfield’s eyes should be. Fire ignites in her eyes. “Or else.”

A new set of hands not holding the chest grow from Garfield’s shifting form, jerking in manic movements as they zigzag outwards. The hands rub together in glee. The air around him buzz and the frames on the walls vibrate. A few of the heroes wince and groan as they feel the pressure build around their brains. “A BATTLE YOU SAY? I WON’T GIVE UP MY MONEY MAKING OPPORTUNITY FOR NOTHING, SO A BATTLE YOU WILL RECEIVE.”

The chest shatters. Jagged shards of wood hover in the air, orbiting the monocle Davenport hasn’t seen in many, many years. He gasps, finding his feet taking an involuntary step forward. The monocle hangs suspended in the air for only a moment before the palm of an eldritch hand swallows it. Only the vaguest outline of the monocle is seen drifting through Garfield’s form, before it disappears under the purple robes

“Well,” Magnus says. “Fuck.”

Garfield glows an immaculate gold as he sings a sigh. “YES I CAN FEEL ITS IMMESURABLE POWER.” He tilts his head in the mimicry of a grin, the featureless face slicing straight through their mounting terror. “WHAT SHOULD I DO FIRST? HOW ABOUT THIS—”

A blurry, blue motion streaks through the air. They can barely see Carey as she does a flip, unsheathing a pair of daggers over Garfield. The blades glint in the lamplight as they slice off the two extra arms protruding from his form. When she lands on the ground in a crouch, she smirks at the sight of them dispersing into nothing.

Garfield looks back at her. “SERIOUSLY?”

Carey thinks it over, then shrugs.

“WELL, OKAY. FINE THEN. I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU REALLY RUINED THE FLOW OF MY BADASS LINE.” Both hands whip in front of him, and the sound of a grin filters through his words. “ANYWAY, TRY THIS ON FOR SIZE.”

From his palms gushes a momentous wave of water.

The force of the flood is incredible, and in seconds Davenport is swept off his feet. Water fills his mouth, and he holds back a scream as he feels himself jostled out of the office. His eyes screw shut. He relies on his sense of feeling as he is tossed and turned into the main store. With the larger surface area, the water spreads outward until Davenport slides across the wet concrete with a mere puddle under his hands. He pushes himself up, hard hacks going through his chest as he coughs up the water he swallowed.

He looks, and immediately finds Magnus a few feet to his left—on his back with his shield raised in front. Under it and pressed to his chest armor is Angus, who lost his glasses in the flood, coughing as he tries to pry himself from Magnus’s grasp. A few feet in front of him lies Lucretia. Soaking wet, she struggles to her feet. She sways, and her boney hands push her white curls from her face. She coughs a few times, but manages to get her wand raised in the air.

Davenport swears, hands falling to each of his pockets. His wand is missing. He looks around and, while he finds a washed up Killian and Ren by the food court and a dizzy Avi and Carey back towards the entrance, there’s no sign of it. “Fuck,” he says.

An echoing laughter breaks through the air as Garfield sweeps into the main store. Between the ominous glow around him and obvious signs that he’s the source of the flood, the store’s patrons start scattering. There’s a few screams, but most of those who see him start stampeding towards the glass door exit.

“WAIT YOU HAVEN’T SIGNED UP FOR THE REWARDS PROGRAM YET.” Garfield waves a paw, and steel walls appear before the exits. A few people scream.

“Fantasy Costco doesn’t even have a rewards program,” Lucretia says.

“WELL HOW ABOUT SOME CASH BACK?” And a storm of knives appear in the air before flying at her.

Lucretia swears and yells out the name of a spell. From her ivory wand, blue magic races outwards, spread and solidifying into a barrier. All thirty of the summoned knives strike the wall before falling into the ground uselessly.

The bolt of a crossbow and the purple arrows of the umbra staff soar through the air, but Garfield waves a hand, casting an illusion that makes them disappear from existence.

“No offense, Cap, but you really didn’t think this one through,” Magnus says as he stands. He keeps Angus close to his chest, despite the kid wrestling to break free and aim the mini-crossbow on his wrist at the retail worker.

“Har-har,” Davenport replies. He turns to Lucretia, who is fighting back an explosion of fire with an even bigger shield. Sweat gleams on her brow, and her feet slide backwards from the force. “Where’s Jenkins’ wand?”

She trembles. “I don’t have it!”

“Alright…” He turns and sees the aisles made of towering warehouse structures, and the industrial boxes stacked inside them. “Follow my lead and distract them!”

She nods before saying another ancient word. This time, her barrier surges forward, smacking into Garfield before he can have a moment to react. It continues like that until it pushes him back to the other side of the store where he creates an inhuman dent in the plaster. The barrier shatters on impact, but it’s only a distraction. With Garfield incapacitated, the three and the boy Magnus carries dart into the aisles.

Angus grumbles, looking over Magnus’s shoulder to see Killian, Ren, Avi, and Carey following after them. “Um…does anyone here have a plan?” he yells.

“I’m thinking of one!” Davenport shouts back. They’re in the aisle for magic weapons, and he stops at the rows of packaged wands. He snatches a cheap three pack off the shelf and rips the paper backing. The grooves on the wood feel artificial, and he knows it won’t last more than a few spells before breaking.

The rest skid to a stop by him, Avi panting as he holds a hand to his head. “I don’t feel a thrall anymore.”

“For now,” Lucretia says, lifting a helmet off a high shelf to hand to Magnus. He immediately slips it over Angus’s head. “If it’s stopped being used, it’ll come back even stronger than before.”

“So why is it that you people know so much about the Grand Relics?” Ren demands.

Magnus pulls a pair of gauntlets resistant to the elements off the shelf and slides them onto his hands. “Now’s not really the time for this—”

“Actually.” And Avi raised his one-handed sword with both hands, brows knitting together. “She’s right. You guys aren’t affected by the thrall. You seem to know a lot about it and you just happen to be on the same train as us?”

Magnus starts to raise his ax, but a clawed hand holds him back. “Hold on now,” Carey says. Everyone stares at her as she glances from person to person. “Listen. I kinda get that I was the middle man in all this, and I really should duck out now before I get too involved, but listen. Even I can see that now’s not the time to start getting suspicious of each other. That thing is really fucking dangerous, and you’re going to need an army to get it…”

Her words die in his mouth as a repeating noise fills the air. Growing louder and more numerous the closer it gets to them—the constant wailing of many very, very hungry felines. Carey sniffs the air, before making a face. “Cats.”

Sure enough, down the other end of the aisle, hundreds of cats come running—all various shades of orange as they meow with hunger. Lucretia swears and puts up another barrier, cutting off all but three. One darts between their legs before latching its teeth into Ren’s ankle. Another launches through the air and lands right on Magnus’s face. And the last gets bored and scampers into the towering rows of merchandise.

Magnus yells and grunts as he tries to pry the cat’s claws out of his scalp, but its teeth gnaw into his face with all the ardor of an animal who has go hungry for far too long. “Pan-fucking—someone help me!”

Carey gets her hands around the cat, swearing as it continues its attack. Finally, she hisses at it until the hairs on its back spike up and the claws fall off his face. With no mercy, she chucks it away, smirking when a whimper sounds its direction. She looks back at Magnus and winces. “Oooh. That’s rough.”

The bridge of his nose had been bitten into, and blood gushes down it in an uninterrupted waterfall. Accompanying it are hundreds of little scratches marring his dark skin as he sighs. “Why is it never dogs?" he asks. "Why do none of our adventures let me pet a nice dog?”

“Yo, you have sixty more seconds before this thing has to go down,” Lucretia keeping her stance strong as more and more cats pile around her barrier.

“The Oculus is inside of Garfield,” Angus says. “I don’t know if we have to slash or kick or whatever to get it, but once we do it’ll be game over for him.”

“He’ll never let us get close to him,” Killian says, handing out a reluctant truce. “How do you beat someone who can make anything real?”

“Maybe _hold person_ and then get him?” Ren groans. “God, I can only think of evocation spells right now.”

Carey clears her throat. “I know we got off on the wrong foot. But I’ve been paid and I don’t have to worry about rent now, so I can help. I’m a rogue. I can steal anything.”

Killian looks her up and down. “And why should we trust you.”

“I like my independence. And being victim to some thrall isn’t my definition of that.”

“Thirty seconds!” Lucretia yells.

“You killed two people,” Killian says.

“One. The engineer was already dead when I got there.”

“I trust you,” Magnus offers. Carey meets his eyes, amazed. “Like, conditionally. We still gotta a long way to go before we really get there, but like. Deep down? I think you’re a good person.”

Killian’s frown only thickens. “Fine.”

Davenport sighs, conjuring a plan. “Magnus, you get her as close as you can to him and make sure she gets that monocle. I’ll make a distraction and Lucretia and the rest can deal with whatever illusions he makes.”

Avi turns to Ren. “Help Burnsides and with the monocle. They’ll need a magic.” He meets Davenport’s gaze, and the two captains have an argument without words.

“Ten seconds!” Lucretia yells before starting the countdown.

Davenport holds all three of his new wands in his hand, aiming them up at the flood of cats. “Well. Here’s goes nothing.” And he casts an illusion.

Heat builds up in the wands instantly, so hot that he can feel it burn his palm. The wood cracks and breaks in a small explosion, but not before releasing a pack of howling bloodhounds into the world. They’re true illusions—intangible, but realistic enough that most of the cats gathering around the barrier yowl and scamper away.

The barrier comes down, and the few remaining cats swarm them. A few latch onto Lucretia, but she quickly casts wordless spells that sends them reeling away with sizzling fur. One especially ferocious cat jumps into the air at Davenport, but he lifts his arm in time that its sharp teeth dig into the fabric of his jacket instead of his face. He struggles with it for a moment before managing to shake it off. He rushes back to the shelves of goods and pulls out another pack of cheap wands, ripping the packaging open and raising the three into the air as he casts another high level illusion.

Clouds appear in the sky above, and thunder rumbles. A flash of lightening, and the remaining cats and spooked enough that they scurry into the dark corners of the industrial shelves to hide. When Davenport looks around, he sees Magnus, Ren, and Carey have already disappeared into the commotion, off to find Garfield. He takes a breath to think. The aisle they’re down now is easily defendable, but he knows they need to find the warlock as well if they can ever hope to give the rogue a big enough distraction.

He grabs as many more of the packaged wands as he can stuff into his pockets and arms. Six is the most he can manage, which means he only has six more high level illusions he can make, maybe even less if it keeps taking three wands to channel his magic. It’s not good odds, but he doubts he’ll find anything better soon. “Let’s go,” he says, and he leads the charge back into the open.

Much of Fantasy Costco has been laid to ruin. Tables that had neatly folded shirts have been toppled over, and the glass from the frozen food section glitters on the ground like snow. Wind rips around Garfield as he cackles, throwing nonsensical illusions at the adventurers who dare to attack him. The half-orc who had been managing the entrance takes a fallen wood beam and chucks it at Garfield. It dissolves into the air before it can even reach him, and with the wave of a hand, quick sand appears under the half-orc.

Killian fires her crossbow, and the bolt soars through the air. With the wind currents, it hefts higher than she aimed, and it goes right over the warlock’s head. Garfield gets a moment to laugh a gloat before the bolt strikes the wire of the lamp suspended over him. He only has a moment to react before it comes crashing down, bringing him to the ground with it.

“Nice!” Avi beams.

Garfield jumps back into the air, hovering ten feet off the ground. Anger radiates off him as a wordless scream fills the air. The ground hisses, and a green substance oozes from the concrete. Wisps of gas furls into the air as the soles of Davenport’s boots bubble. He gasps, trying fruitlessly to stumble away. “Acid!”

“Jump on the count of three!” Lucretia says.

“What?” Killian say as she lifts Angus onto her shoulders.

“One, two, three!” When she and Davenport jump, Lucretia aims her wand downwards and casts another barrier spell, this time on the ground. It hovers only a foot in the air, solid enough that when their feet hit it, it stays solid. Avi and Killian scramble to step onto it as well, though the acid levels only continue to rise. Behind them, the trapped patrons scream and scramble to find safety on top of the food court’s tables and other wreckages.

“Where are they?” Avi demands.

“Give them time,” Davenport says as he tears open another three pack of wands. He scrambles to think of an illusion good enough to distract Garfield. Something that will leave him opened for an attack.

“TRY THIS ON FOR SIZE!”

Above, a slab covered in sharp spikes appears. It only hangs in the air for a second before gravity kicks in and sends it thundering down.

“Fuck!” Lucretia casts a second barrier spell, managing to catch it a good distance above their heads. The pressure to maintain both spells at once wears on her, and the exhaustion shows plainly on her face. Her teeth grind together and sweat pours down her brow.

Then the spikes disappear.

Lucretia groans in relief.

Garfield rubs his hands together, humming a low note that makes the ceiling shake. “HMMMMM I’M NOT GOING TO GET ANYWHERE WITH YOU AROUND.”

He waves a hand, and an arrow appears inches from Lucretia’s shoulder before suddenly shooting forward at full speed. It pierces through her skin, causing her to scream in pain as the pointed end exits through her back. She falls onto her knees, defeated for only a brief second. She glares, raising her wand and uttering the words of a killing curse.

The blue coming from her wand is darker. Not cerulean. Navy. Maybe it’s simply black. It blazes in a jagged line, stopped only by the wall Garfield summons.

“WE’RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO DISCONTINUE YOU,” he says.

And he holds out a hand.

At first, nothing happens. Then, Lucretia’s face falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I ended up splitting this chapter in half since it's over 10k and I cannot in good conscience make you guys wait that long between updates. So, here's the first part! I'm a little disappointed since all of the stuff I'm actually excited for is in the second part, but I hope it's okay. Especially since splitting this into two really is going to mess up the rhythm of the fight. HOPEFULLY IT'LL BE OKAY BUT
> 
> I might make a long post of tumblr with a lot of my reasoning and comments behind some of the magic featured in this chapter, but that's only if people are interested. I'm just trying to cut back on the length of these notes RIP
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who's given this a reading. I love hearing from you guys what you think, and it makes my day knowing that there's someone out there in the world who's interested in this story. It's just incredible to think that we're nearly 10 chapters in and people still want to read this and know what's going to happen! Thank you so much!!!!!! 
> 
> Next chapter (part? the continuation?) should be coming soon! Thank you for reading! xoxoxoxox


	10. In Which Davenport Reclaims His Monocle (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will our heroes find a way to defeat Garfield once and for all?  
> (Somewhere out there are two birds)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: mild body horror and mild violence. Nothing more extreme than what the McElroys give us on the reg.

There’s a passage in Lucretia’s journal, one stuck in the middle of a blue volume. The ink has long dried, and the hand that wrote it was quick and calm. The words blend ideas into imagery into a scene of select voyagers of the _Starblaster,_ gathered in the kitchen as they waste away another cycle. It’s nearing the hundred year mark, and one by one they craft the artefacts that will one day become known as the Grand Relics.

But like the way the seven relics came into existence in a trickle—a slowly developing storm on a blue sky—they did not know yet the affect that their artefacts would have on a single world a mere years in the future. They didn’t know that the freedom to live their lives, the solution to the end of a hundred worlds, would come at a terrible cost. In this recorded moment of history, all they could see was the end point to their long voyage—a chance to rest, to stop witnessing the apocalypse annually like a child’s birthday.

Davenport, the journal noted, was not working on anything. He had a glass of wine in one hand, a monocle on his eye, and a novel flat on the table.

He sat on a chair next to Lup, watching her fit plates of metal together to form her gauntlet. Multiple times, Taako had turned from his spot at the stove to harass her about not taking this to her workshop, but each time she stuck her tongue out and told him to piss off.

They were identical in only the broadest of senses. They had the same nose and dark skin, but they seemed to have done everything within their powers to differ long before the institute was a twinkle in their horizon. Taako was the shorter twin, but only by a few inches. Despite the years of good food, nothing stuck to his bones. He was all leg— spindly. Pulled thin like stretched toffee. Lup, meanwhile, was rounded. Her gut protruded over the band of her pants, and she walked in a way that over emphasized her large hips.

During this scene, a pair of goggles sat on steep slope of her nose, and she aimed her wand at the point where two plates would meld together. Sparks jump through the air, some singeing the choppy ends of her dark hair. When satisfied, she stood and cracked her back. “So…” She pulled up the googles, and suction marks circled the space around her eyes. She glanced down at where Davenport turned a crisp page. “Cap n’ Port. What kind of big secret project are you keeping from us?”

He huffed and took a sip too long to be considered elegant. “What gave you that idea?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you working on anything.” She leaned into the table, propping her chin on her hand. The sleeve of her robe was rolled to her shoulder, and Davenport could see the intricate tattoo adorning her arms. It mapped spells only she and Taako knew—many they invented—and she often used her ink as a quick reference during the heat of battle. “Also, is that cabernet?”

“Pinot Noir.”

“Nice.”

“And, I assure you, my artefact has been complete since long before I was born.” He smiled and plucked his monocle off his face.

Lup’s ears flitted downwards before jumping high into the air like radio antennas. “Hey, are you sure about that old man?”

The journal uses the same word to describe the way Taako approached their table that Lucretia's writings always attaches to his gait— _saunter_. In her eyes, he’s either languid like a cat as he drags nimble feet on the ground or slick and fluid like a man with no bones. _Saunter_ describes both states elegantly.

So Taako sauntered over, a scowl thick on his face as he stopped in front of Davenport. “Can I borrow that?” he said without waiting for an answer, simply plucking Davenport’s wineglass from his hand. In one solid swing, he poured the dark liquid down his throat.

“Hey!” Davenport started to reach for the glass, but stopped with a groan. He knew better than to feed Taako’s chaos.

There was no life in Taako’s eyes as he aimed a pointed glare at his sister. “Tell that to the heathen messing up my kitchen.”

“Damn. Sucks to be you, bro.” Lup reached across the table and poked Taako’s side. He jumped with a shriek, sent her a dirty look for making that noise come from his mouth, and swatted her hand and head. “Get this. Captain Crunch here’s using his monocle for the Light.”

Taako’s ears twitched upwards. “Ya joking.”

“Why do you find this so hard to believe?” Davenport asked.

“You made a big deal about how we weren’t allowed to even so much as touch the damn thing.” Taako pulled out his wand and, with a little tap, refilled the glass to the brim with ruby wine. “Blah, blah, blah. Great Davenport family heirloom. Something, something. Grandfather’s grandfather’s junk.” He chugged this glass as well. When he pulled it back, he dragged the sleeve of his crimson jacket-over-robe uniform over his mouth. “Y’know. Sentimentality.”

“I mean…” Davenport cleared his throat. “Yes. It is my great grandfather’s monocle. And yes, I have historically been very protective of it. But it feels fitting that the thing I must give up to be free of the Hunger should be something so meaningful to me.”

“Or you could just be like me and use a fucking rock.”

He quirked a brow. “Sentimentality.”

Taako huffed and shoved the glass back into his hands. “Go off, or whatever I guess. Just seems dumb.” And with that last word, he sauntered away, off to harass someone else.

“I think it’s cute,” Lup said, twirling her wands between her fingers. “Stupid, but kinda sweet.”

Davenport smiled. “Thank you, Lup.”

“But, like, it’s still something that means a lot to you. It’s like this great big part of your family’s—” She waved a hand around, as if she could snatch the word she was forgetting out of the air. “— _whatever._ You love that thing.”

“I do.” Davenport turned the monocle in his hands, letting his finger trace along the edge.

There was writing along the edge of the glass, microscopic words in Gnomish proclaiming the Davenport family destiny— _great seas, greater tidings, greatest legacy_. He imagined he could feel them under the pad of his thumb, though he knew deep down that it was an illusion made up by the ghost of memory. Of standing on the stern of his father’s ship and reading the inscription aloud for the first time, turning to his father and swearing that one day he was going to go on an adventure where no being has gone before. Of enlisting in the navy and opening a small box to see that the monocle was now his, fire igniting in his soul as he reaffirmed his dream of one day seeing a plane of reality beyond his own. Of reading the prophecy before fitting it onto his face, straightening his jacket and stepping aboard the _Starblaster_ for the first time.

He said, “And it’s fitting, I think, to part with it.”

The journal ends this scene on a small note—Lup, shrugging her shoulders. “Crazy, but whatever Cap. It’s your junk.”

* * *

 

It starts at the upper corner of her head as small squares form in her flesh. One by one, they fall off, plummeting to the ground like autumn leaves. For a moment, all Lucretia can do is stare with no real sight, feeling each fiber of her skull separate before breaking. Then her hand flies to her face, grasping for flesh that is no longer there. At an eerie crawl, she turns to look at Davenport, and he can see the horror masking what’s left of her features. She swallows. “Help...”

Davenport is at her side in an instant, his first instinct to try to press his hands to the parts of her skull about to break, holding it together. The pieces only fall through his fingers, and too soon a quarter of her face is gone—the left side of her forehead down to the bridge of her nose. An eye is missing, along with her ear. Soon it will be her whole face.

Killian is launching bolt after bolt at Garfield, but he takes no notice of any of it. Avi rushes forward, sliding on his knees so that he’s at Lucretia’s side. “Take a deep breath,” he says, smoothing a hand on her back. “Just breathe. You’ll be alright.”

Davenport steps back, looking up at the cackling being in the purple robe. He wants to blow apart Garfield’s smug façade of a body, show him all the wraith a captain of his rank is made of.

Instead, he thinks of a spell.

He takes Lucretia’s wand from her hands, knowing that even if the focus is not made for him, it’ll be better than any of the generic ones in his pocket. The ivory is smooth in his palm, the handle shaped to fit her hand. It’s a relic from their home world, and the end is shaped to reflect duo sources of sunlight. On this plane, it’s true brilliance will never be realized.

Davenport points the wand at Garfield and, with fury and power imbued in each long syllable, yells the name of his spell in Gnomish.

An illusion unlike any other manifests.

The size of a building, stone and looming as it stretches upward and upwards, so tall that if it was tangible the top would break the ceiling apart. At first, it just seems like a stone pillar, but then dusts kicks around it, and it bends. It’s humanoid—the face is a blank slate, the barest hints of an expression leering down at Garfield.

Y O U R S I N, the Judge says with a voice never heard on this plane of reality before. I S G R E E D.

Davenport grins. It’s only a replica of what he saw so many decades ago, and if Garfield thinks to swipe an arm through it, the illusion will disappear. But the greatest illusions are ones that don’t need tangibility to work. They’re the ones that paralyze and distract with sight alone.

And sure enough, Garfield freezes. He stares at the mirage, mouth agape as the Judge swoops even lower to scrutinize Garfield for all his sins.

There’s no second to react when the image of the Judge dissipates— Carey breaking through the image to swoop down onto the warlock with twin blades drawn. He has no second to react before she slices through him.

Garfield screams a horrible noise, one that sends the lamps on the warehouse's ceiling swaying from the force. The purple robe rips in half, and the image of his form breaks into parting smoke, revealing the oculus.

Carey grabs it midair, a triumphant smirk on her snout as she adjusts the headphones on her head. Now Davenport can see Ren a few paces back, balancing on a cash register as her umbrella glows with the magic of a small levitation spell. Magnus sprints down the length of the store, jumping from safe perch to sinking rubble, the fumes of the acid dancing around him as he holds out a hand. “Over here!”

Killian takes a step forward, off balance as Angus takes his hands off her neck to cover his ears. “Toss it here!”

Carey doesn’t think twice: she throws it to Magnus. The monocle glints in the air as it goes, the thrall emitting from it doubling in force. Legs uneven in a dissolving table and chair set, Magnus catches it in one hand. His eyes go wide in an instant, as he looks down at the glass. “Shit.”

Davenport pockets Lucretia’s wand. “Burnsides!” he yells.

Magnus looks up from it, blinks, then chucks it at him.

Davenport rushes forward a few steps to meet it, but Killian’s legs are longer. She catches it long before he can even think of grazing a finger along the glass, a triumphant smile consuming her face before quickly turning into a knitted brow of concentration. She grits her teeth together, adjusting the headphones on her head to make sure they’re in place. “C’mon,” she mutters, staring down at her fist, as if she can see through her skin and bone at where the monocle used to be. “Leave me alone.”

He pauses in his step. Behind him, Avi is on the ground, trying to keep his soothing words on Lucretia while is eyes stare at the monocle like it’s the hands of god. Carey lands on the levitating barrier, sliding a bit as she keeps the headphones over her ears. With one look, she knows to stay close to the human, ready to hold him back if the thrall’s lure becomes too much. All the while, on Killian’s shoulders, Angus McDonald clamps his hands over his ears, a monologue spilling from his lips of everything he knows about magical thralls and how to resist them. Without his glasses, his face looks small.

Lucretia is on the verge of hyperventilating, the back of her scalp peeling away before falling to the ground like shaken tree bark.

Davenport evens his expression, and pulls out the ivory wand once again. He points it at Killian. “Sorry.”

And he blasts her.

The magic from his wand is a regal maroon, careening through air before striking the orc in the center of her chest. She falls backwards, the crossbow clattering to the ground a few feet away. Her back strikes the barrier with a bang, Angus crushed under her weight. He yelps in pain as his head strikes the edge, the tips of a few unfortunate curls singeing on the layer of acid. Davenport swears aloud. Her hand has gone from being flat to a tight fist encasing the relic. He shakes his head and sends another volley of _magic missile_ at her. These volts are a little weaker, but they’re repetitive enough to force her fist to unravel.

Davenport grins and takes one step, only for a pain to spark through his thigh. He gasps, dropping Lucretia’s wand as he falls onto his knee. There’s a hole in the side of his pants, and purple smoke wafts around the angry red burn in his skin. “Stay back!” Ren yells from her safe perch. She points the umbrella at him, another purple charge accumulating around it’s tip. Her silvery hair floats around her as energy jumps and scatters around their strands. Every muscle in her face is contorted with anger.

“Hey!” Magnus yells from his own spot, but he carries no weapons that can reach her.

Carey, however, does not hesitate to sprint across the barrier before leaping onto the nearest piece of dissolving rumble. She hops from shelf to rack to counter until she’s close enough to Ren to flip over her and land a solid kick.

Killian groans, starting to return to consciousness.

With the drow distracted, Davenport lunges for the wand. The moment it’s in his hand, a maroon _mage hand_ unfurls from the tip, reaching yards across until the semi-opaque hand wraps around the monocle. The gold chain attached to the glass drags along the barrier as it bring it back.

The eyes of every person in Fantasy Costco is upon him when the magical hand opens over his own and drops the oculus.

And for a second, his world stops.

 _Heyyyy buddy,_ a sleazy voice whispers. _you’re an illusionist… take me and realize your true potential…_

He frowns, tightening his hold until he feels the rim of the glass dig into his skin. He hears Magnus yelling as Killian stirs, but it’s part of a different world. The one that matters now is the power speaking to him in his hand, drawing him in with sheer will alone. “I don’t need you.”

_take me… whatever you can ever want, i can make…_

“No,” Davenport says as Killian’s voice rises over the din.

“Give us the relic!” she yells. “Before the thrall gets him!”

“Dav!” Magnus screams.

_TAKE ME_

Davenport says, “You can’t tell me what to do.”

_LISTEN TO ME_

“You are my great grandfather’s most prized possession” Davenport says, voice rising. “I put the Light inside of you. I made you into what you are. You can’t tell me what to do because I created you.”

The world around him comes to a standstill, but he doesn’t notice. He can feel the thrall oozing from the monocle weaken, as if the consciousness locked inside is accepting his command. He takes a deep breath. “You’re mine. I will use you however little or much as I want. Do you understand?”

_yeah…_

A beat. Davenport’s heart hammers as he raises his hand and slowly fits the monocle over his left eye. It fits the way he remembers it, and the gold chain he drapes into his front pocket is a familiar weight. He imagines he feels its inscription in his skin, but he knows the difference between reality and sentimentality.

The voice of the Light captured inside his great grandfather’s monocle speaks one last time, growing dimmer with each syllable until its nothing more than an afterthought. _you found me buddy…i couldn’t remember who made me…_

And the thrall vanishes.

The rest of existence comes into sharp focus, and Davenport feels the complexity of the world around him come crashing in.

Easy breaths return to the room as the spell disperses, leaving many like Avi gasping for air. Wayward brown strands fight from his ponytail, and he places a hand on his chest as he gathers himself again. Davenport wants a moment to do the same, but he can hear Killian struggle to her feet to the opposite rhythm of Lucretia hyperventilating. Without a second thought, he turns back to her.

A crossbow is drawn taut.

Killian’s face betrays no emotion. She’s solid, strung tighter than her weapon as she rises from her knees onto her feet with no difficulty. “You’re one of the Red Robes,” she says without question.

Davenport stares her down for a moment. He makes a small wave with the hand, one that makes her shoot off a bolt of her crossbow. It scrapes his cheek and nicks his ear, but he focuses on his thought. He wants less witnesses and he wants his backup. At the signal of his hand, the pool of acid coating the floor disappears as if it was never there. Immediately, Magnus darts from his spot, and comes up from Killian’s rear. She turns around in time to catch the blade of his ax with her crossbow, but she lifts a trunk leg and kicks him back.

With another wave of the hand, the walls blocking the glass doors disappear as well, but this time no one moves. The motely crowd witnessing this battle are caught in equal parts amazement and fear, many too enthralled with what’s happening to move.

A clot forms in Davenport’s throat, but he has no way of destroying it. Instead, he shakes his head and hurries to Lucretia.

Avi is still next to her, a hand on his sword as he watches Davenport with a stony expression. Even then, his grey eyes are soft, as if the picture he’s started to piece together is one that makes painful, emotional sense.

“Just let me help her,” Davenport says.

Avi looks down at the monocle, then back at the gnome. He tightens his arm around Lucretia, but it lacks maliciousness. It’s a comfort for her. “Okay.”

Davenport kneels in front of Lucretia, thinking to himself that he wants the destruction wrought onto her face to stop. Instantaneously, she stops falling apart. She’s missing more than half her face now, and the damage looks bad. Her one eye is wide and she gasps for air like a drowned man, but she’s at least still functioning. He chews on his lip, thinking for a moment. “I’m going to fix this,” he says. “Just let me do it right.”

Her pupil tracks him in shaky motions as he reaches into her pocket, pulling out the stone of farspeech. He tunes it to the _Starblaster,_ and immediately Julia’s voice crackles through. “Put Merle on,” he says. “And get the ship ready for a sudden departure.”

Merle’s voice comes through a moment later. “What’s up, Dav?”

“A lot. Don’t ask questions, just describe to me in detail everything there is to know about human anatomy in the head.”

A pause, but sure enough: “Okay, so working our way outwards, we start with the brain.”

It takes a few minutes, but Davenport does it. Envisioning a functioning human body, he pieces Lucretia’s face back together. He draws her skull in sturdy white, then packs hot pink muscles over it. He splashes intricate embroideries of blood vessels throughout, before covering his work with a taut stretch of dark skin. Lucretia watches the entire time with mouth agape, mouthing out words that can’t be said.

When it comes to her actual facial features, he looks around. “A mirror,” he says to no one. “I need a…” And he frowns. “Right.”

He manifests a hand mirror into existence, one mimicking the one that always sat on the dresser in his mother’s room. Even now the ornate details of the silver roses shine wrapping around the handle before splaying over the mirror’s back is impressive, but some of the finer details are blurred, as if his brain can’t remember what should be there. “Work with me, Lucy,” he orders, pushing it into her hands. He shapes her fingers around the handle, and they’re slack for a moment before tightening into a sure hold. “You have to tell me if I get something wrong.”

Lucretia blinks as if she’s never had eyes before, rapid and disconnected from the rest of the world. With a little nudge from Davenport, she holds the glass to her face and watches as he sculpts her nose back into existence. She gulps. “It’s.” She gulps again, throat flexing. “It should be wider.”

Wider it becomes. Her ear and eye are returned to their proper positions, and she has to remind Davenport about the mole just under the tail of her brow. Bit by bit, she regains control of herself until she can feel the arm Avi keeps around her shoulders and hears the thumps and bangs of Magnus and Carey fighting back Ren and Killian. Beyond them, some of the trapped patrons of Fantasy Costco have left, but many mingle for the slightest chance of seeing where this commotion will be going. “Leave my hair,” she says when she starts to see strands of white start to pop from her scalp. She brushes over some of her remaining curls onto the bald part of her skull. “We need to go.”

“Agreed.” He bores his eyes into Avi. The guy meets his gaze in equal measure. There’s a tense moment where Lucretia jerks an elbow so that it’s in the perfect position to, when the time comes, jam straight into his face.

Avi sighs and releases her arm. “I’ll help you—”

Davenport helps her to her feet before he can, and she wobbles as vertigo sweeps through her. “Shit.”

His chest sinks. “Did I mess something up?”

“Pretty sure it’s just the shock. And, you know, the arrow in my shoulder.” She looks up in time to see Carey jump off Magnus’s shoulders, doing a flip at lets her barely dodge the blast from Ren’s umbrella. Except, the vibrant purple of her magic is dull—more lilac than royal. Ren seems all too aware of the fact, yelling in frustration when the _magic missile_ she manages to land on Magnus’s bicep disperses with all the harmlessness of a fly.

Lucretia clears her throat. “So.”

“Yeah,” Davenport says. “I’m thinking.” He glance back and catches Avi’s eyes, and it’s not a glare he sends as he pretends to notice Angus’s glasses a few feet away, rushing to grab them. It’s guarded, but understanding. Like he doesn’t believe them yet, but he could one day.

The feeling in Davenport’s breast is like the hollow echoes of church bells ringing out warning only the most devote of priests care to know, but he doesn’t know why.

He shakes his head and turns away

“I say, fuck it.” Davenport snaps his fingers.

Ice appears under Ren and Killian’s feet a moment before encroaching upwards, shackling them to the ground. Both women yelp and groan as the ice only stop inches above their knees. A similar trap forms around Avi and (for good measure) Angus, but both only look surprised. Angus pushes his cracked glasses onto his nose, nursing the side of his head with his hand. When Lucretia sees, she slips her wand back from Davenport and sends a spell his way. The blue sparks hit their mark, and Angus blinks with even more surprise as the pain dissipates.

Seeing their targets bound, Magnus lowers his ax. “Stop, stop, stop.” he says, catching the back of Carey’s collar before she can make a free hit on the orc. He gives her a warm look. “You’re going to want to scram now.”

She grins. “Thanks.” Before he can say anything back, she slips out of his grasp, slinking away towards the crowd witness the whole ordeal. Her clawed hand strikes her forehead before she flicks it away in a mock salute. “See ya around, Burnsides!” With that, she jumps into the crowd, melding with it perfectly until no one can track her exit into the streets of Neverwinter.

Magnus raises a hand in a wave, lowering it slowly when she disappears. With a shake of the head, he swings his ax in a large circle before hefting it onto his shoulder. He gives Killian and Ren an apologetic half smile. “Sorry.” He takes two steps away, before turning back around and yanking the headphones off Killian’s head. “I’m just going to borrow these.”

Killian snarls, making the tusks pressing into her upper lip all the more prominent.

Magnus jumps away. “Nope, sorry! My wife needs this!” And he all but sprints to join Davenport and Lucretia’s sides.

With Magnus’s hulking mass behind him, Davenport can almost ignore the way anxiety pulsates through his veins, attacking his skin with barbed ends. They should just leave now. There are planes where it’s best to make as little noise as possible, and this is one of them. Making a connection to a doomed world won’t help when they’re only going to get Killian, Ren, Avi, and whoever else they’re working with on their trail.

But this isn’t every other plane. Here, a gold band sits around Magnus’s finger as a sure promise. Here, Lucretia meanders the world in search of a way to help, and Barry sits in a bed as he waits for someone to save him. On this plane he got to spend twelve lovely years with Merle at his side, retired on the beach as they spend their hard earn freedom on cheap wine that tastes like salt water. Hand in hand, chest to chest as they sway on the sand with the crashing waves as their song. The taste of the world on his lips. He knows the stars charted above their heads, and the child who calls him uncle.

They’re a part of this world now. He can’t force them to step back and disconnect themselves from it. They’ve woven themselves into the web of bonds surrounding these people. There’s more than seven of them now.

He clears his throat. Then, with a hand raised in the air, Davenport snaps his fingers.

The illusions on their uniforms vanishes, revealing the scarlet hue for all the world to see. They’re pristine and professional, and he can feel the watching crowd’s mixture of awe and puzzlement as they take in the jackets both he and Magnus don and the robe billowing around Lucretia’s frame. Davenport tilts his chin and folds his arms behind him as the picturesque captain. He turns his hazel eyes to the crowd with a gaze that makes every person here believe he’s looking straight at them.

He clears his throat, unable to resist the urge to shift on his feet. He hates public speaking. “My name is Captain Davenport of the _Starblaster_ and the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration,” he says. “Or, I guess, member of the Red Robes. Whatever you call us, it doesn’t really matter. We’re not the enemy. We’re here to save this world from the apocalypse and it’s coming in less than one year.” The room stirs, and he finds himself rushing to get these next few words out. “I know that’s worthy of panic, but please just let us help you. Do that, and we can save this world.”

“You created the Grand Relics!” Ren’s shout is hollow and fierce, and she earns a gasps and whispers from the crowd watching.

Davenport’s visage remains professional, but it softens. “We had no choice.”

“What? Someone held a bow to your head?”

Davenport jerks his head to his family. “Let’s go.”

They only get a few steps before the bolt of a crossbow whizzes through the air. Magnus gets his shield up in time for it to bounce off the scratched surface. “You want us to trust you?” Killian yells. “Fine! Give us a reason! You destroyed our lives. You destroyed Armos!”

Their faces mirror the same horrified expression, but Davenport’s is laced with an extra layer of exhaustion. “I know. But we had to separate the Light of Creation.”

Killian’s face screws in discomfort as a hand goes to her ear. Everyone but the three of them do similar, and Davenport can only guess that it’s the voidfish’s static distorting his words.

“Sorry,” Davenport says. “But just… I don’t know. Just trust us.” He motions at Magnus and Lucretia. “Let’s go.”

He makes it another three steps when he hears Magnus’s voice behind him. “Ren?”

Davenport turns and sees that Magnus has Lucretia an arm around Lucretia, holding hr steady as he looks askance at the wizard. Ren has her umbrella raised, the tip ready to fire off at the slightest misstep. Her eyes are bright and narrow, holding him in place with a threat incapable of being put into words. Magnus meets it with a stare of his own, one marked by the sorrow brimming through his irises. Lines cut through his skin, and it’s the first time Davenport can see how old Magnus has gotten. “I just…” Magnus releases a long breath. “I just want to say sorry for Refuge. When I gave it to Jack, I didn’t think any of it would happen.”

Ren stares at him for a long moment, processing the meaning behind his words.

Then she yells and charges another spell. This one accumulates around the umbrella’s tip, growing brighter and brighter. Magnus already has his shield raised when she launches it, but it never comes. It travels back down the purple canvas and weaves through the ebony handle. A pained yelp comes from her when her own purple magic sparks over her dark skin, the magic turning a shade of fiery red in the process. The umbrella drops from her hand, and it smokes as it clanks onto the ground.

Davenport reaches back and grabs Magnus’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Lucretia shakes her head before gasping as her robe at the shoulder darkens with blood. She holds a hand over the shaft of the arrow sticking out of her flesh, grimacing. “We should ask…”

“No. You need to see Merle. Let’s go.”

Magnus rips his eyes away from Ren. He tries to take a step away, but Lucretia drags her feet on the ground. He loops his other arm under her legs and picks her up. Together, Magnus and Davenport make their way to the exits. Davenport doesn’t know what Magnus does, but he forces his eyes to meet Avi’s as they walk. There’s no accusation in the gray, but there’s no understanding. More than anything, he just seems like a normal guy caught in a very strange situation.

This time, the feeling in his chest is easy to understand—pity.

The crowd surrounding the exit part in the middle for them, but it’s not the consequence of being respected or believed. A few adventurers stare in absolute awe while others hover hands over their weapons for any sign of an impending attack. This too Davenport understands, and it makes him want to shuck off his gold-detailed uniform until he’s can dance on the beach once again. He can’t, so he pulls it on tighter and lets his irises light up.

Davenport meets as many eyes as he can until he can’t. Then he studies the way his boots kick the concrete until they pass through the doors.

Reality bends and shifts, and they exit the pocket dimension into Neverwinter. The streets bustles with the frantic energy of a city with no comprehension of ease, and there are a few injured adventures milling about as they wait for the militia to arrive. A few seem to recognize their faces, but Davenport pays them no heed. Their interest is gone as fast as it came, and the crimson uniforms marking them as something special is as remarkable as the gum dried to the cobblestone ground.

Davenport turns down the street, leading them to the gates leading out of the city, where the _Starblaster_ waits for them. Where wife and boyfriend wait in equal measure. Where he can take off his grandfather’s monocle and have a piece of the Light back in good hands. Where they’re a little closer to preventing the apocalypse. And, despite everything, they disappear into the crowd as they head home—just ordinary people going about their lives.

They aren’t legends. Not here. Not yet.

* * *

 

 

Two of the seven birds are captive—one in a prison of her own creation.

She lingers there now, not quite alive but no doubt conscious. She’s long discovered that keeping all five sense active at once takes too much energy, that she can go longer between the umbra staff’s feedings if she chooses to shut something off. She sacrifices her ability to see the drape of curtains surrounding the conjured walls in favor of relying on sound, giving herself just that extra boost of power to take a tiny bit of control back from Ren. No spells will hit her friends. It’s tiring work, but as long as she can still hear Magnus, Lucretia, and Davenport make their getaway, she’s content.

But not satisfied. She wants her freedom. If she wanted to, she can make a lightshow of sparks and flames, make the dots connect in Lucretia’s brain, make Davenport wretch the umbra staff away and Magnus break it. She can be free and beautiful and whole once again. But, if what little she can tell from inside this cell, they don’t know where Barry is. She doesn’t even know for sure where he is, having to rely solely on sensations outside her magical grasp. But she can get close, closer than she has been in years. If she has to stay here for another long decade for the slim chance that she can even hear his voice again, she will do it a hundred times over, again and again.

She chooses to remain captive—a sacrifice she makes without considering it one. It’s her choice, and that choice is a blessing not given to the other bird. Her twin.

Taako decides that the worst part is the lack of feeling. Numb all over, as if he’s been plunged into an icy river that zaps his nerves off. But that’s not even accurate to begin with since the startling differences in all kinds of waters or temperatures makes no difference to him now. Nerve endings and the mixed blessings they bring are a distant memory. He wants to be cold, for icicles to gather on his mockery of arms. To feel every snap when they break off. He hasn’t worn clothes in years, but the changing seasons have no effect on this form. He’s nothing but a stupid, stupid toy.

How long he’s been like this—trapped and numb, aching in a way no words can justly describe—he can’t say. The seconds blend into turning minutes and ticking hours, and maybe he’s been here for more than a few days. When he really concentrates, he can almost feel how the years have slipped between his fingers, gathering in mounds of sand at his feet as the glass walls cinches inwards.

Maybe it’s better that there’s no number to measure it. With that knowledge will come despair and, as a final fuck you from the universe, it's emotions he can still feel acutely.

That kind of feeling, he needs less of. He doesn't need any of that panic and anxiety ruining his ability to conjure a way out of this place. He can float through this nightmare just find when he holds out an arm and stays aloof. It’s happening to somebody, and that somebody is him. When he puts it like that, it’s easier to deal with.

He’s somebody, and this is what somebody is dealing with. He’s Taako and he’ll invent a way to cope.

The monotony is broken only by the few times he can find a spot to be alone and meditate. He sits with artificial legs crossed as he pushes his mind into a place where he can feel— the painful longing to see his sister again, of how the memory of her fiery grins seems to rust with time. The embers of hope that someone will notice he’s gone, that one of these days he’ll see the hulking form of Magnus rushing through those doors to rescue him. It’s the idea that maybe, when this is all over, he’s going to grow a beard. Then he can drag his hand over his face and feel the bristles under his palm whenever he wants. He can wear clothes with wacky patterns and hear his voice spread through rooms with defined corners and bright windows.

But it’s only a hope built on scraps of faith he wrings from his bitter disposition. Until then, he mimes the semblance of a life, one with no feeling.

It’s his just reward for doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow. Here's this part. I definitely feel as though this chapter isn't as polished as it could be (like there was a whole escape from Neverwinter chase scene I had to cut), but I've been working on this for far too long. We needed to get this story moving again. I'm still regretting breaking up the fight again since Davenport's illusion really seems to come out of nowhere here instead of being a gradual build up. Oh well.
> 
> So I'm going to post on my tumblr some additional notes for this story cause I don't want to ramble too much here. Link: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/172939706781/northern-migration-chapter-10-notes
> 
> And, of course, giant thank you to everyone who has been taking the time to read this silly thing. I feel really bad that I couldn't give this arc the finale it really deserves, but please know that I'm going to do better in the future because I want this to be worth your time. So thank you so much for being awesome even when I fail to live up the hype. I appreciate you all! xoxoxoxo


	11. In Which Merle Doesn’t Listen and Davenport Doesn’t Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of the Starblaster celebrates their first victory. Bane has some new information for his team. A man seeks redemption.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Julia asks, watching Davenport place his monocle in the safe. They're in his office, just after their debriefing on how today's disaster of a mission went. Everyone but the two of them left to set up an impromptu party. Julia hugs herself out of habit, watching with wary eyes as he throws the door to the floor safe, locks it shut, then pushes the old carpet over it.

“The thrall seems to have disappeared,” he explains, standing with his shoulders as loose as he can make it with every ounce of his naval training ordering him otherwise. "That safe was made to contain all types of magical energy— even the Light of Creation at many times." He taps her elbow—the highest point he can comfortably reach on her—and guides her towards the door. “Trust me. It’ll be safe in, well, the safe.”

“It better be,” Julia says. “If I find Stevie doing something she shouldn’t because of that stupid thing, I’m going to find a way to fight it.”

He laughs mostly because it makes her seem more at ease. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

The faint trail of a song whirls through his closed door before the distant sound of Stevie shouting interrupts it.

“You’re joining us, right?” Julia asks.

“Well.” He should start mapping out a new plan to get the next pieces of the Light. He needs to find a way to not take another two months to retrieve the next one. His brain can’t even begin to outline everything little task and step they need to take.

But today was a good day. Hard, but good. They deserve a little celebration.

He smiles and finishes the thought. “There’s wine.”

A knowing twinkle dances in her eye. “You’re staying the whole time, or else. I will make this a sober ship if I have to.”

He brushes the threat away, but he can’t mask how nice those words are to hear. They remind him of some of the kinder cycles, where they could spend their nights burning away the hours with good wine and humor. Those memories are twinge in blue now, and they make a sick ache fester in his chest. So he pushes it aside and focuses on swinging the door open, revealing the deck.

Someone has breached the storage room long enough to fish out the gramophone—an old machine with an ornate horn raised high in the air. They picked it up from one of the earlier cycles, and they used to play their small collection of records all the time just to fill the long, dead spaces with something other than air. Now it’s covered with a layer of dust that Stevie blows away as she runs her hands over every inch of the intricate wood base, mouth agape in awe as Lucretia switches out one of the records.

Lucretia’s bandaged all over—the white strips wrapping around her shoulder the most prominent—but she seems well. Okay, but tired. She’s already slept off the strain of having most of her face wilted and repaired. Stevie has taken to pestering her for every moment afterwards, trying to get as much detail to the story as she can. Davenport wants to call it cute— _I guess this is what Magnus was like as a kid_ —but she isn’t grabbing and tugging the way he’s used to seeing. For once, Stevie keeps her hands behind her back, staying a choice distance away as she drills and inquires.

It’s odd.

Lucretia, forever patient with the girl, smiles and explains all she can about the invention they found tens of planes ago. “The needle reads the grooves,” she says securing the record on the spinner. “It can tell what the sound is from that, and it comes out here.” She pats the horned speaker, laughing a little when Stevie jumps a little to peer inside.

“But how does grooves mean sound?”

“All sound is just squiggly air.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Dav!” Merle’s with Magnus a little distance away, a glass of wine in his hand as he leaves the married man to yell for his wife. He waddles over with a flushed face, and the flowers caught in his beard unfurl with a renewed sense of mirth. The moon above wanes, but magic lights cover the rails around the _Starblaster_ , giving the silver deck a cozy gold glow as they remained parked in a clearing in the forest surrounding Neverwinter. The ancient trees house them under the stretch of their branches, giving them the tiniest glimpse of the stars above.

“You’ve started drinking without me,” Davenport says, trying not to laugh when Merle all but falls into his arms. The wine in the glass swooshes over the rim, spilling onto the ground. Shaking his head, Davenport slips it from Merle’s fingers and guzzles the rest of it for himself.

Merle pretends to give an offended gasp. “The love of my life? Betraying me in cold blood?”

“I’ll take a good vintage red over you any day.” Before Merle can even start to look offended, Davenport leans in and brushes the tips of their noses together. It’s an old gnomish habit, one that he’s sure Merle doesn’t understand despite claiming otherwise.

Sure enough, the dwarf sputters, pushing him away with a brash hand. Davenport has to remind himself that it’s different with dwarves.

Lucretia satisfies Stevie’s questions enough to finally get the music started up again. A smooth but light voice flutters through the air, singing about lovely days on the beach and the kind of people you met there. Magnus’s grin shines through the bandages covering his cat scratched face. He pushes new glasses of wine into Davenport and Merle’s hands, shouting for everyone to relax and enjoy the evening. Summer will be ending soon. These balmy nights will not last forever.

Three bottles and half a record in, they’re all seated around the gramophone. Off to the side, Magnus shuffles a deck of cards, listening intently as his cross-legged daughter explains to him the rules of the game her friends had taught her. He nods and asks questions, laughing when she makes a poor attempt at a joke. She’s loud over the languid beats of the music, but he’s louder and together they match.

Davenport picks up the wine bottle and tops off his drink again, watching as Stevie tries to take the deck of cards out of Magnus’s hands only for him to hold it far out of her reach. He smirks and laughs to himself when Stevie tries to climb on top of him, resulting in Magnus flipping her over and starting a small wrestling match.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Julia drags Davenport’s attention back to their drinking game, giving wicked smile as she refills the four shot glasses between them. “This is an easy one. True or false: here, you drink Fantasy Coke cold and Fantasy Pepsi warm.”

“Shit,” Merle says as Lucretia hums and thinks it over. The last time they played this game with her, they managed to drink Julia under the table with all of the weird things that make Tusolia different from Faerun. In the years since (has it really been years, Davenport wonders), she’s figured out exactly what kind of facts about her world they aren’t going to easily know.

“Logically speaking,” Lucretia says, “if we have the same brands on our plane, then the formulas aren’t going to be different.”

“That—” A bubble of laughter rises up through Davenport’s lips, and he places a hand over his mouth to hold it back. “—is exactly what she wants us to think.”

“Do you want us to think that?” Merle asks.

Julia throws her hands up, trying to suppress a smile the alcohol in her blood wants her wear. “I’m not saying!”

Lucretia snaps. “I’m saying false. You drink coke warm and pepsi cold on every plane.”

“Except on the plane where you don’t,” Davenport says.

Lucretia presses a finger to her mouth, leaning right into his ear to hush him.

“Um, I’ll also vote false,” Merle says.

Davenport shrugs. The three of them have to agree on one answer, and there’s no point in thinking it through for himself if there’s already a two-thirds vote. “Fine. False.”

Julia grins. “Take a shot. You drink coke cold.”

They give groans that turn into laughter before picking up a shot glass each and throwing it back. Gleefully, Julia uncorks the burbon bottle and refills their glasses once again. “Okay, um, Lucretia already went so it’s Merle’s turn? Right?”

“Did I go?” Lucretia asks.

“Yeah you did the question about the name of the monarchy,” Davenport says.

“I don’t even remember that,” Merle grumbles.

“Ask away, Merle,” Julia urges.

He thinks for a moment, picking at the wirey stands of beard sitting against his chest. “Hmmm, how about true or false: on our home world, one of the suns rose in the east and the other rose in the west.”

“That’s a bad one,” Lucretia says.

“No it’s not! If you’ve never been there before, you might think it’ll do that! Back me up here, Dav.”

He makes an uncommitted noise. “I’m trying to figure out if I can stand to do another shot.”

“Hey!”

Julia snorts. “I’m going to say false because then it’ll never be night and you guys aren’t weirded out by the idea of a moon.”

“Damn it, Merle,” Davenport says as he takes the shot glass again. He winces as this shot goes down his throat, the alcohol swirling the insides of his skull in the process.

Merle grumbles through his shot. “I thought it was a good idea.”

“I’ll make this an easy one,” Julia says. “True or false: here people’s hearts are located on the left side of the body.”

“Your left or my left?” Merle asks.

Lucretia knocks her elbow into him, aiming for the gut but getting his arm instead. “You’re a cleric,” she says as he whimpers and rubs the pain away. “You should know this!”

“Are you telling me,” Julia says, slow and heavy. “That you gave both me and Stevie check-ups without knowing where our fucking hearts are?”

Stevie’s voice breaks through the air. “Pops! Momma just said fuck!”

Magnus has her flat on the ground, arms in a loose hold as he coaches her through the process of breaking free. “Julia, don’t be a bad example for our kid,” he says without looking. “And Stevie, you gotta twist your arms a bit more. I know you can do it.” She does so, breaking her arm free from his grip. He beams “Great! Now into my nose.”

“I’m going to guess false,” Davenport says, returning to their game.

“No, it’s true,” Lucretia says.

“What?”

“The anatomy here’s reversed. Flipped around like a good old bisquick pancake.”

Merle shrugs. “I didn’t know that.”

“You’re a healer!” Julia exclaims before taking her own shot glass and shooting it back as well.

The song on the gramophone changes. The beat morphs to one that is both jaunty and slow, mimicking the soft up and down dim of the magic lights lining the ship. Merle looks up, nose scrunching as he recognizes the song. He turns to Davenport and grins. “C’mon,” he says, taking the gnome’s hand and pulling him onto his feet.

They stumble over their feet as the alcohol makes the world spin and turn. Davenport falls a little into Merle’s chest, and he can feel a new kind of flush heat his neck and cheeks. “Oh my god,” he says as Merle places a hand on his back and presses them chest to chest.

“So sue me for wanting to dance to our song,” Merle says, holding his hand as they start to sway. It’s clumsy and awkward, but when has dancing with Merle never been anything but clunky?

“You gotta warn a guy,” Davenport replies. “At least ask him instead of…” He blinks, forgetting where that thought was going.

Merle leans in, brows wiggling. “Sweeping him off his feet?”

Davenport leans away, laughing. “Instead of, uh, dragging him away.”

“I’m a helpless romantic,” Merle proclaims. “I can get all the vines and weeds—”

Davenport catches Magnus as he and Stevie head towards the gramophone. “Save me.”

Magnus laughs. “Sorry, but I’m saving the first dance for my wife.”

“Stevie,” Davenport says. “Please. Save your uncle.”

Stevie looks from his face to where Merle is doing an over exaggerated wink. “Nope. I’m too young for this.” And with that, she trots away to where Lucretia sits, joining her on the ground as they watch Magnus take Julia’s hand and pull her onto the dance floor. Julia’s skirt billows in the air like a blooming flower. She’s heavy on her feet, but Magnus is good enough at dancing that he can make her seem like a natural beauty.

“ _Out on the briny,”_ Merle sings, his wretched vocal cords matching to the tune of the song. “ _With the moon big and shiny. Melting your heart of stone.”_

“I told my mom I would never date a bard,” Davenport says.

“You don’t regret it.”

Davenport pretends to think about it. “No. I guess I don’t.”

His face hurts from smiling so much, but his head is so perfumed by wine that he can’t bring himself to care. He feels the rough callouses on Merle’s hand squeeze his own as the dwarf continues to lead their dance, muttering the words when they’re there and humming when they aren’t. Davenport leans into his chest, resting his cheek on Merle’s shoulder. Sometime during the instrumental interlude, he closes his eyes and focuses on the rise and fall of Merle’s breast.

“ _Out on the ocean_ ,” Merle sings. “ _Far from all the commotion. Melting your heart of stone.”_

Davenport swears he’s floating.

“Dav,” Merle says, letting the record finish out the song solo. “Do you want the good stuff or the bad stuff first?”

He tries to cling to the remains of mirth. He mumbles, "neither.”

“Well—” His groan makes his chest rumble like an earthquake, and Davenport opens his eyes as he feels Merle’s stress rise to the surface. “So, remember John?”

“Merle.” Davenport says.

“While you guys were down there, he tried to drag me to Parley. I didn’t—like I resisted and all that, but—”

“Merle.” Davenport steps back from the dwarf’s chest, feeling the hand on his back tighten around his shirt, but he can’t bring himself to care. He lets his eyes meet Merle’s green ones, watching as their shine become tainted with worry. “Why didn't you bring this up earlier?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t wanna ruin the mood.”

“I…” Davenport shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re getting mad at me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Then what do you call this?”

“We were having a good moment right there,” Davenport says. “It was nice. That was—you didn’t—” He groans loud enough for only Merle to hear. He doesn’t want to ruin this victory for anyone else. He’s sure Magnus and Julia are too absorbed with the next song flitting over the speaker to even notice that he and Merle have stopped swaying, but he can feel Lucretia’s eyes inspect every stretch of his muscle. “Listen. Let’s just deal with this later.”

“It just so happens, and this might surprise you,” Merle says. “That’s actually what I was trying to do in the first place.”

Davenport glared. “Gods. You are frustrating.”

“But you’re not mad at me,” Merle says.

“No.”

He quirks a brow. “You are mad.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Well, something has to be there,” Merle says. “Cause you sure aren’t telling me anything.”

Davenport takes a steadying breath. “I don’t want to have this argument again.”

“Well, geez Dav. The last twenty times we’ve had it haven’t done anything about your communication skills.”

“So this is my fault?”

They hear Julia and Magnus hiss in sympathy, and Davenport jolts. Merle and him haven't raised their voices yet, but apparently this argument is bad enough that they don’t need loudness to make a scene.

Merle makes a surprised face. “Oh, no it’s not. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what is it?”

Merle takes a step back, holding his hands up in the air. “Let’s just sleep on it, okay? I’m exhausted and drunk, and I bet you’re as tired as I am.”

A sore feeling festers in his chest, and Davenport presses his hand to it as if that’ll do anything to help. “What was the good thing?”

“Hmm?”

“You said there was a bad thing and a good thing. What was the good one?”

Merle shakes his head. “Doesn’t really matter anymore.” He starts to walk away, waving his hand through the air as if that’ll do anything to dispelled the looks everyone else was sending him. “I gotta take a shower. Night everyone!”

As he goes, he ruffles Stevie’s head. She frowns and pushes his hand back, but she cranes her neck to watch him retreat down the steps to below deck.

Davenport sighs as that cold feeling only gets worst. “I’m going to go to bed too,” he says. He retreats down below before anyone can say anything, feeling the alcoholic bliss rust and dull until he only has a headache and a dry mouth.

When he sleeps, he dreams of the shadow of Merle’s body blowing into dust by an invisible wind over and over again.

* * *

 

Late summer in Goldcliff is insufferable, even to those who live there. Too far inland to benefit from the cool breezes of the southwestern seas, and encased by so many mountains that the heavy heat is trapped between the dusty rocks, thick and low on the ground. Always clear skies with no alleviating rains. Only the river that runs through makes the city livable, and many of its residents find refuge in the parks that spring up along its banks. True, many of those parks require entrance fees and membership cards, but the sentiment is there. Much of Goldcliff’s residents who can’t afford the splurge find themselves wasting away those old summer days in the shade of the metropolis’s skyscrapers, following the arc of the shadow as it sweeps over the streets.

There’s a store in the shopping district no one dares to loiter around. It’s a stout, modest two story from a time before this one. The first floor is an artificer’s workshop with an array of magical items for sale. The second story is off limits to every customer, but everyone knows that’s where old Leon lives. It’s why he gets mad when he sees teens loitering in the scraps of shade his store casts, cursing these kids for trampling over his metaphorical lawn.

And it’s this building where, when the orange sun is large and low on the horizon, three adventurers stumble inside.

Leon looks up from his chair at his workbench, only taking the pipe from his mouth when he recognizes the exhausted faces. “You’re late,” he says, breath weighted with smoke as he jumps onto the ground. Like always, his snowy beard drags on the floor behind him, picking up dirt and dust. An iron wrought key is pulled from the drooping sleeves of his robe as he marches over to the door.

A smile strains on Avi’s face as he watches Leon turn the lock and switch the sign at the window from _open_ to _close_. “The train from Neverwinter was a bitch and a half,” he says.

“I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours,” Killian adds. She has most of their bags in one hand as the other keeps an unconscious Ren balanced on her shoulder. The drow fell asleep on the train and neither she nor Avi had the heart to wake her.

Her umbrella, however, is looped through Avi’s belt, right next to his sword. He pulls it out now, handing it over to Leon. “Ren wants you to check this again,” he says. “Something about spells backfiring.”

Leon takes it, frowning as he turns the purple canvas over in his hands. “She knows she has to be more explicit than that.” Avi and Killian start for the doorway behind the desk, their feet heavy and slow. Leon shuffles towards a table in the corner adorned with various tools and gadgets, including a new set of headphones to replace the pair that was stolen. “Bane’s been waiting upstairs.”

Killian hums as Avi opens the door, revealing a staircase leading to the second story. “What kind of mood?” she asks.

“Tired. A little stressed.”

“So business as usual.”

The stairs are narrow, and seem to hold all the cold air the city is missing. At the top is another door, and Avi pushes it open to reveal the living room of the apartment. Johann is sitting at the kitchen counter, a pile of papers spread before him as he tinkers with the little black notes dripping over the musical bars. His back is to the door, and he turns in order to give a weak wave. “Hey,” he says, balancing a rosewood violin on his lap.

At the couch in the middle of the room, Bane looks up. One hand is reaching for one of the boxes of take out while the other lingers over a fold sitting neatly at his side. “You’re late,” he says.

“Connection train was delayed.” Avi yanks off his coat, groaning as the fabric peels off his sweat-soaked skin, and hangs it up at the coat rack. “Which wouldn’t be a problem if someone would just get me a battlewagon.”

“I enjoy making your life miserable,” Bane deadpans. “There’s beer here if you want it.”

“Need something stronger,” Avi says. A few long strides takes him to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen.

Behind him, he hears Killian grab the bags on the ground before dropping Ren on the couch opposite of Bane. “What’s takeout tonight?”

“Elven.”

“North or southern?”

“Southern.”

Finding a hefty bottle of brandy, Avi pours himself a glass that is probably too large and makes his way back to the cluster of couches and chairs in time to watch Killian scrunch her nose. “Seriously?”

Bane shrugs. “Doctor says I have to watch my cholesterol.”

Killian leans over her arm chair and nudges Ren’s leg. “Oi. Get up and make something edible.”

Ren mumbles something incoherent, rolling over so that she’s face down on the cushions. It would be a decent façade, save for the way her ears flicker towards the noise.

Avi takes a drink, and man does it feel good to get some of that in his system. Warmth gathers in his chest as the alcohol’s burn flushes down his throat. “I could make something,” he says.

Ren shoots upright, her frayed braid bouncing around her in all directions. “I’m up!” She rolls off the couch, scrambling with the franticness of a trapped animal to get into the kitchen before he can touch anything. As she darts past him, she points two fingers at her eyes before jabbing them back at him. He laughs.

Avi picks up one of the takeout boxes, sees that it’s uncooked fish wrapped in a lemon leaf, and takes a seat on the newly evacuated couch. “So.” He takes a bite, using a finger to help push bits of the leaf past his lips. “Anything on our Red Robes?”

Bane squares up, taking a deep breath as he gathers his thoughts. “Yes and no. My contacts barely got back to me in time, and it’s...” He shakes his head. “Well, they have something in common.”

“Clear ties to some kind of evil magical organization with a clearly identifiable headquarters?” Killian says. She tugs at her shirt, fanning air down her chest.

Bane barks a laugh. “I wish.” He picks up a box of seasoned rice and digs a spoon into it. “As far as anyone knows, none of them existed until about twelve years ago.”

“You’re kidding,” she says. She is one of the founding members of their group, and she was the one who first realized that the Grand Relics not only existed, but had to have been made by someone. Her original estimate was for two decades ago, and Avi has a hard time wrapping his head around the idea that he actually lived in a time when seven relics didn’t threaten to destroy the world.

With one hand, Bane manages to flip the folder on his lap open. He picks up one of the papers and hands it to Killian. “There was apparently a gnome matching your description named Captain Davenport in Bottlenose Cove. His ship docked there twelve years ago, and he and his partner—a dwarf named Merle Highchurch—lived there until just after Midsummer. No family, no job, not even an military record to go with that title. Before that, he just didn’t exist.” He picks up another paper, and hands it to Avi. A rough list of basic facts about the dwarf greet him, outlining everything from a general description to his favorite wine bar to his apparent ties to the church of Pan. “I checked into this Merle as well, and the good news is that he does have one record from before twelve years ago.”

“Baptismal papers?” Avi wagers.

“Try death certificate.” As Bane says it, Avi sees the note at the bottom of the page stating the same. “I traced the Highchurch name back to the Rockseeker clan and it all seems to fit with everything from his family resemblance to being a goddamn Pannite. But the only Merle Highchurch to have ever existed was a stillborn from over two hundred years ago.”

“Could be a stolen identity,” Killian says.

“Still doesn’t get us anywhere,” Avi replies.

“Hey.” From his perch on the stool, Johann taps the bow of his fiddle against his knee as he gives the room a sullen look. A port-wine stain splotches the center of his face, making his dull nose seem larger than it really is. “Not that I, like, know anything about anything, but I don’t think they’re fake identities.”

“Sure.” Bane stuffs a spoonful of rice into his mouth. A few grains stick to the whiskers of his silvery mustache.

Avi scrunches his brow. “Wait, what?”

“Didn’t you say on the stone that you met _the_ Magnus Burnsides?” A spark lights up in Johann as he seems to his a little straighter, his hand drawing up his bow as if he’s going to play a note out of thin air as he sings: “ _An ax in hand, a scar on eye_ _. And they call him Magnus Burnsides.”_

Ren looks up from the pot she sets on the burner. “He did have a scar on eye.”

“Yeah,” Johann says, “so like, why not get a new identity that won’t get him recognized?”

“Exactly.” Bane fingers through a few papers before pulling out the sheet he’s looking for. “And, Burnsides—the guy lives up to his name. Owns a carpentry and forge with his wife. Has a kid. Was pardoned by the Council of Lords for the Raven’s Roost rebellion due to the previous governor’s violation of national laws. He’s solid. I couldn’t even get the militia there to tell me anything about him without a warrant. He’s that well-liked.”

“But he didn’t exist before twelve years ago,” Avi says.

“Exactly. I found a record of him registering with a woodworking guild, but before that? Nothing.” He passes Killian this sheet as well, and she reads over the notes swiftly before handing it over to Avi. “Now his wife. Julia Burnsides.”

“ _Bird in flight, a hallelujah. Scorned to heights, say Ju-li-a._ ” Johann sings, laughing when Ren leans over the counter and joins in with her own cracked vocals.

Bane tries real hard to not be annoyed. “Yes. That one. She’s good. I easily found her birth certificate and everyone else in her family. But the Raven’s Roost rebellion and her marriage didn’t happen until after that twelve year mark.”

Avi swirls the brandy around its glass, mulling over the implications as the gold liquid settles. “So, if we’re guessing right and all, she doesn’t come into the picture until after the Grand Relics first came around. So, she’s not really a part of the Red Robes. Not then at least. Now might be different.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Bane says.

Johann swings his bow around like a conductor’s wand, imagining the music to the song. When he points the tip of the bow in Ren’s direction, she does a little twirl and holds out a ladle like the arm of a dance partner. “ _Never will ya see the fire, of a gal so full of ire. But a lovely lass was she, as she showed the Roost her fury—“_

Killian throws her head back and groans. “Johann! I will pay you actual money to not get that stupid song stuck in my head again.”

If not for the human blood running through his veins, his pointed ears would flicker back in embarrassment. As it were, his pasty skin gets a fresh red hue from the column of his neck to the tips of his ears. Ren pokes the side of his head with the handle of her ladle, surprising him enough to almost send him toppling off the stool. “Cheer up, kid. She’s just mad cause Burnsides kicked her ass.”

“He did not!” Killian snaps.

“Did too!”

“He ran away!”

Ren turns her electric smile towards Avi. “Help a sister out?”

He looks at where Killian stews with her bandaged side and glaring eyes. He clears his throat and turns back to Bane. “Anyway—”

“Coward!”

“Get anything else?” he continues, unperturbed.

A slight smile threatens to creep on Bane’s mouth, but he manages to suppress it. “Well, considering you guys only gave me a first name and a vague description, it was by sheer luck I got anything on Lucretia.” He pulls out the last paper and sends it Avi’s way. “That luck being that I’m sure I’ve encountered her before.”

This one has more information than Avi would have expected. Bane lists off facts about her short stint as a painter in Raven’s Roost, being a part of the rebellion before becoming a healer. The sheet lists various churches and schools she visited to learn her trade, and even catalogues the months she spent in some areas doing charity work. A listing for Goldcliff comes up, and Avi puzzles over it for a moment.

When it hits him, he nearly drops his drink. “Holy shit!” Bane stops dead in the middle of his sentence, watching Avi scramble up on the couch with barely contained excitement. “Holy, holy, _holy shit_!”

“What?” the older man asks.

“Yeah, spill the beans Captain,” Killian says.

Avi shoves the paper in her direction. “It’s the missed connection! The one who got away!”

“No way,” Johann says as Ren sprints over to Killian’s chair, peering behind her as they both read over the paper. The same dots connect in their heads—the story Bane always repeats of a woman he met once and fell in love with and the powerful magic user in Fantasy Costco.

Bane groans. “Guys—”

Killian cracks up laughing as Ren jumps up and down. “Oh my God! She actually exists!”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Bane says as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Shut up, you know it is,” Killian says. “You won’t shut up about her.”

Ren places a hand to her forehead and swoons. “ _She’s the most brilliant woman I’ve ever talked to,_ ” she says in her worst Bane impression. “ _Talented and full of ideas. If I were ten years younger, I would’ve asked her to dinner, but even then I knew she was too good for someone like me_.”

Killian throws herself back, hands pressed to her chest. “ _My sweet, sweet Lucretia_!”

Bane has his fingers to his temples. “Oh my god.”

Avi whistles at Johann. “Still got that song lying somewhere?”

Johann grins and tucks his violin under his chin. “Presenting—an ode to Lucretia, the Missus Bane that was never meant to be.” He slides off his stool, drawing his bow over the strings in a sad melody that floats throughout the room. He’s awkward on his feet, but he manages to stumble his way through a simple dance that places him right behind Bane’s couch. His lanky frame leans down to get the notes directly into Bane’s eardrums.

Bane groans and jams both hands over his ears, but it doesn’t stop him from watching Ren twirl and pretend to ask Avi out, only for him to shun her away with an exaggerated wave of the hand. Killian has a hand on her injured side, laughing hard enough to bringing tears to her eyes. It’s the ruckus Leon walks into the apartment to see, causing him to pause at the doorway as Johann finishes out the last bits of the song.

“Raven Queen take me now,” he says, taking a long drag from his pipe before making his way to the kitchen.

The orc slumps deeper into her chair, dragging her hands down her chest. “Gods above—I can’t breathe!”

“Nice to know my romantic prospects are that hilarious to you,” Bane replies sully.

“Boo hiss. Get a cat.”

“I mean—we did tease Brian into getting a boyfriend,” Johann says.

The warmth of the apartment evaporates, gone as quickly as it had settled. The yellow and red hues of the evening’s glow is tarnished, grayed into the moping shades of unburied sorrow. Avi gulps large swings of brandy like he’s a starved man as the dance leaves the tips of Ren’s feet. Killian drags herself upright and Leon makes more noise opening and closing cabinets than necessary.

Johann twirls the bow in his hand, continuing on as if he’s unaware of the effect his words have. “We had that ode to Brian’s soulmate and we got him into those speed dating nights at the tavern and—”

Bane clears his throat. “That’s enough, Johann.”

Johann stares at him for a long moment. Emotion swirls in his eyes, but it’s impossible to say what it is—too many colors, too many angles to the same burden. “Don’t you…” He lets the words hang in the space, grappling for the syllables to complete the thought. He deflates. “We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“We’re not,” Bane replies. He means it.

“Sure. Whatever.” Johann brings the bow back to the violin, stringing a few woeful notes with no clear melody. They carry his dragging steps back to his stool, where he perches and goes back to his music sheets. Avi stares at his back as if the bard’s flowy shirt is going to unravel thread by thread, maybe revealing beneath some secret about grief and the way memories warp with time—something Johann understands but Avi doesn’t.

He can’t say it aloud, but Avi misses how Brian used up all the hot water in the morning, meeting him with hair dripping for a breakfast at dawn. How Brian never moaned or complained when Avi spent hours taking apart and reassembling the same battlewagon engine over and over again, instead trying to take interest in that he doesn’t understand. How lavender hands held out tiny spiders that would crawl onto Avi’s pale arm, ticking his skin as Brian named them one by one.

But it’s the memory of Brian caught in flames he remembers the most vividly—the gauntlet that possessed him encasing his hand, a manic plan on his lips so uncharacteristic of the early morning smile and cup of tea. Of the bolt that soared from Killian’s crossbow, just barely seeing it pierce his chest before being pulled into the well, saved from the inferno that will take his friend away from him forever.

“I looked at your umbra staff, Ren,” Leon says from the kitchen, causing the drow to snap back to attention. “It’s not damaged, so it’s not a broken focus that causing the spells to rebound.”

“Well it’s doing something weird,” Ren says, squeezing both Killian and Avi’s shoulders before walking back to the kitchen. “I also think some of my spells are weaker when using it…”

Bane clears his throat, trying to reign back in Avi and Killian’s attention. “I also got some stuff on Hallwinter, but it’s really nothing else we already didn’t know. He also apparently didn’t exist until twelve years ago, and his story of being a professor mostly checks out. He actually worked with Maureen up until her death before I guess leaving the job.”

“You guess?” Avi says.

“The brat hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

“Geez.” Killian shakes her head.

Bane reaches over, collecting the papers profiling each of the Red Robes back into its folder. “And that’s all I got. If what Hallwinter says is true, then there’s one member we haven’t discovered yet.”

“It might be—” Avi stops himself before it’s too late. The panic rises through the pores of his skin the way weeds push through the earth. He feels his knee start to jump from nerves, but he quickly clamps a hand over it and pushes it into the cushions of the couch. The memory of the gold glint of Sildar’s wedding ring is sharp in his mind. The single, muttered name bounces around his cranium, and he’s the only one here who heard it.

Avi can tell Bane right now that they should be on the lookout for someone named Lup. He should, but he knows before he even makes the decision that he won’t. The smoldering determination lying beneath the sorrow of Hallwinter’s irises tell him not to. The fact that Davenport seemed like a nice guy despite having created the Oculus tells him not to. Having someone to eat breakfast with is better than the loss of trust Hallwinter will surely have once he finds out.

“What?” Bane probes, his bushy mustache dancing over his lips.

Avi shifts in his seat. “I, uh. I was going to say it could be the boy detective, but he’s only like nine. Doesn’t fit the timeline.”

It’s a bad lie, but no one notices. “Whoever they are, they’ll show themselves eventually,” Killian says.

Bane cranes his neck, checking the clock on the wall. A frown flits over his mouth as he sets aside the rest of his meal. “I have to get going,” he announced, rising to his feet. By habit, Avi joins him, wiping his sweaty hands on his slacks as he goes. “Early train to Neverwinter tomorrow.”

Killian quirks a brow. “Neverwinter?”

“A summons from the Council of Lords. Every militia head is required to make an appearance before Artemis Sterling.”

Faerun, by all definitions and purposes listed under its constitution, is ruled under a monarchy. But everyone and their friendly neighborhood orc know that the king is nothing more than a figurehead, and that the kingdom is more of a loose collection of cities and towns ruled by the lords who own the land and the governors they appoint to maintain them. The Council of Lords that meets in the capital city of Neverwinter decides all the laws and goings, with none more influential than Artemis Sterling. He owns the land Neverwinter was built upon, along with the majority of the northeastern coast. He is the Most Powerful Man in the World, and his vote is law.

“What the hell is going on?” Killian asks.

“Who knows.” Bane marches over to the door, pulling his the jacket of his militia uniform off the coat rack. After a moment’s consideration, he pulls his arm through the sleeve. “It’s probably just a publicity stunt, but I’m still required to attend. I’ll be gone for at least two weeks, considering the travel time and bureaucracy. Might even be the whole month.”

“We’ll handle everything here, Captain,” Avi says, following him to the door.

Bane grins. “I trust you will, Captain.”

“Bring me back a wheel of parmesan,” Ren shouts. “There’s a good deli on Moon Ave that sells it.”

“I’ll consider it.” He flicks off a quick salute. “See you in a month. Istus bless you all.”

The door closes behind him with a note of finality. The room resumes motion as Johann starts plucking the strings of his violin through the traces of a melody. Ren’s hands are quick as she chops up vegetables, arguing with Leon over whether her umbrella is broken or if she’s just a bad wizard. Killian stretches her back like a languid cat, humming contently as she sinks deeper into her arm chair.

Then there’s Avi.

He feels suspended, and he’s not sure why. It’s not unusual for him and Killian to take charge while Bane works his day job. The scene of everyone in the apartment living their lives is nothing beyond ordinary. He scans over their faces, legs stiff as he mechanically returns to his half eaten salmon by the couch. His eyes slide over the door to Sildar’s room, and his mind is filled with the image of Sildar lying at the bottom of the well. The grayness consuming his skin, eyes rolled back in unconsciousness. Nose bleeding from a blow he struck. Avi imagines he still feels Sildar’s weight in his arms as he picked him up, the horror drenching him when he sees how the mysterious man’s legs hung in inhuman angles.

The world glazed over in ebony glass. Seeing a mimicry of his face reflected back as he realizes what Sildar saved him from.

Avi forces it out of his mind. He takes his cupful of brandy and shoots back as much of it as possible. It burns.

* * *

 

His boots make a horrible sound when they hit the glass. It’s not a click or even a thud. It’s a low note that makes glossy surface vibrate, sending shivers through its radius before jumping back to him. The black glass does not go as far as the eye can see, but maybe that’s worse. He can clearly make out the flat expanse of where the town used to be, can see where the scarce ashes had powdered the nearby trees. Even now, months later, the wind still picks the flakes from the thin branches, carrying the gray through the air like a winter snowfall.

Funny, he thinks as nothing but sheer resolution drives his meander further into the heart of what used to be Phandalin. He was here last winter, stuck in the inn as crystalline ice fell from the heavens. The lovely inn keeper gave him a free flagon of ale, one he sipped as he wrote down whatever stories the other trapped travelers had to offer. He bought a postcard, wrote a little note on it, and sent it to June. He knew then as much as he knows now that she took one look at the name of the sender and threw it away without bothering to read it. He’s fine with that. He’s learned to be fine with plenty of things now.

A gaping hole into the earth is all that’s left of the well. It’s the only sign he’s reached the center of town. He peers inside, sees no sign of water, and shrugs. He kneels and drops his bag next to him. His wide brim hat goes off his head and presses into his chest as a small prayer leaves his lips. He’s never been one for religion and gods, but he’s not sure if anyone’s sent a prayer to the Raven Queen yet for what’s happened to the people here. They deserve one, even if he’s the last person who should give it. He pleads for their happy rest in the astral plane and hopes that the queen of death will guide them there herself.

In return, he feels the earth around him begin its slow descent into slumber. Autumn is upon the land. The leaves will die and fall, but their trees that bore them will live on through the onslaught of winter to live on again in spring. Autumn is coming.

When he’s done, he pulls out his diary. It’s a beaten book, something that once cost him a pretty penny to buy. No one would believe the price now that the edges are frayed beyond repair and dirt masks the original design on the cover. He flips to the freshest page, and jolts down all he can about the site. Nothing he writes is informational. It’s all thoughts and feelings as he ponders over the nature of the relic that could’ve done this, of the kind of person who could have something within their hearts capable of wanting this.

When legends come—and they will, as they always do—bards will call him the Diary Keeper. His records are accurate not for the descriptions of the tragedies he seeks, but for the emotions imbued into his prose. But right now, he’s not a legend. He’s not sure what he is now. He used to be a sheriff. There was a man he loved and a girl he didn’t mind calling his own, but none of that was enough to conquer the darkness hiding deep within. None of that could conquer the thrall of that stupid cup.

Right now, he’s just Isaak. He has a diary and a vague mission. He wants to understand what happened. And when he does, he wants to know what he needs to do next. But for now, he writes. He seeks, observes, and writes.

He writes, writes, writes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came so much later than I wanted. The part of the story we're at now is the pseudo equivalent of the Lunar Interlude episodes where I'm just doing character work and time transitions. I originally wanted this to be two chapters, but in an effort to get to the part of the story you're all waiting for faster, I had to cut out a bunch of shit. Even then, there's so much stuff that I'm going to have to make the interlude two chapters anyways. So, one more chapter of character shit and _then_ we'll do the next relic.  
>  The song that's playing during the dancing sequence is Jimmy Buffet's cover of "A Slow Boat to China." If you want more detailed notes on this chapter and a preview of what's coming next, click on the link here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/173431635716/northern-migration-chapter-11-notes-and-preview  
> Like always, thank you so much to everyone who has read up to this point. I know I must be repeating myself at this point, but I've written a lot of stuff that hasn't gotten a lot of notice so to have so many nice people like you guys willing to give this a chance is just incredible. Thank you so much! I hope good things happen to you all! XOXOXOXOXOX


	12. In Which Stevie Breaks Her Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucretia searches for her missing family. Avi goes to the races. Magnus teaches Stevie how to fight.

Even though the door is opened wide enough to see Lucretia’s back as she hunches over the desk, Julia still stalls at the doorway and knocks. The headphones her husband had stolen sit like a necklace around her neck, leaving her hands free to hold two steaming mugs of coffee.

Lucretia’s room is the only one without a window to the cloudy world they fly over, but in return there’s enough wall space for Fisher’s tank. With enough magic, there seems to be an infinite amount of space in there, allowing the galaxy creature to swim and swirl in the glowing water with its baby dancing between its tentacles. They're some distance away when they notice Julia at the doorway, and immediately both start swimming to the glass to meet her.

Lucretia looks up from the many books sprawling over her desk, a pair of reading glasses slipping down her nose. Even now, some weeks later, she hasn’t done anything about her uneven hair. No new, white strands seem to be growing from the bald side of her head. Davenport, it seems, forgot to put in hair follicles when he remade her face.

Lucretia blinks at the two mugs, then lets a smile grow on her tired mouth. “Here to give me a break?”

“You’re going to ruin your eyes if you keep at it like this,” Julia says as she finally comes inside. She picks one of the many stacks of books on the ground between the desk and the bed to use as a makeshift table for the mugs—one painted with the elegant picture of a bird in flight, the other a chipped souvenir from Bottlenose Cove. She takes a look around, smiling when her eyes catch the wall of paintings hanging over the mattress.

“I haven’t really done any new decorating in here,” Lucretia says as she takes the mug closest to her. One sip reveals it to be sweeten with what seems to be half a jar of honey, and she makes a face before switching to the other one. It’s pure black, and she relaxes into the bitter aroma. “I should make a few new ones. Get everyone in the family in it.”

Julia sits on the bed, bringing herself close enough to a painting of everyone on a beach—their crimson robes drying over the rails of the _Starblaster_ as they pose against the turquoise ocean. “I can imagine a few people who would object to having to hold still for that long.”

“Photographic memory,” Lucretia says. “With it, I don’t need anyone to pose.”

“Handy.” With one hand, she loops the headphones from her neck and hands them over. “Davenport’s pulling up a blank and Merle says that Barry can’t figure it out without seeing them in person,”

Lucretia takes them, taking a moment to look them over as Julia takes her own steaming mug. The headband is a rough piece of wood, and the cushions attached to their ends are only reminiscent of a prototype of the gadget everywhere on techno dependent worlds. It’s only when the cushions are pressed to the ear that any sign of magic makes itself known—a song built on layers of strings and percussions plays from the cushions, never ending as it weaves inspirational magic. It’s the clever result of a bard and an artificer working in tandem, but they can’t tell exactly how the song can counteract the effects of the thrall. They need an expert, and the only two members of the crew familiar with bardic skills are either missing or captive.

“I have a friend from home who used to be a bard,” Julia says, careful to keep her curls out of her coffee as she lets its steam warm her cheeks. “I’m going to send him a letter and see if he thinks he can figure out the song for us.”

“I don’t think I have ever heard of someone quitting bardhood,” Lucretia says, putting the headphones on her desk to sketch later. “If you’re a bard, you’re a ride or die kind of guy.”

Julia snorts. “Not everyone can keep a blood oath, Lucretia.”

“Bards just aren’t what they used to be anymore.”

She laughs in a way that makes the voidfish buzz in their tanks, echoing the notes of her voice with their own howls. “No, but seriously. He just does it as a side gig now. Bills to pay and stuff.”

“Ain’t that just the way.”

_“Mmm-hmm.”_

For a beat, they do nothing but sip and enjoy each other’s company.

Julia clears her throat. “So,” she starts. She’s using a tone of voice that she reserves for Stevie, and Lucretia would be offended if Julia wasn’t her friend. “What’re you evern working on in here?”

A nervous jitter inches over her tendons as Lucretia tries to think of a way to even explain. All she can think about is that night in Parley where it was her and Magnus against Davenport and Julia. How Barry, aged and worn, insisted he could be abandoned. She’s spent months turning the argument over in her head, tearing the parts asunder until she can dissect every intricacy under a moral microscope.

Now, she can see how the leader of a violent but just rebellion could agree to leave Barry behind. She can see how the captain of the very crew that makes her family can insist on it. But she can’t rationalize it for herself. Lucretia can’t mold herself into someone who can rest knowing that Barry’s been left behind.

But this is Julia. She adores her daughter and the man she married. She is the last of the Waxmens, and while that’s nowhere near the same level of isolation the rest of them experienced, they are all still the only family she has left. Beneath the whirlwind that shook Raven’s Roost to its core is a woman who loses sleep over the murder of the man who killed her father.

With a small gesture, Lucretia brings Julia off her bed and to the side of her desk. “I’ve been trying to figure out where Barry and the twins are,” she explains, sweeping her hand over the multiple volumes filled to the brim with her writings. Julia hums, leaning down to get a better look at a page detailing a map of Faerun. “When I was traveling, I used to ask about Taako and Lup, but it never really got me anywhere and I didn’t learn anything helpful.”

“This is incredible,” Julia says. “Do you think you’re getting anywhere now?”

“Not really.” Sorrow resounds between her ribs. “I can’t even figure out where Barry is beyond some big city with a lot of noise.”

“You have Armos circled here.”

“That’s…something different.” Lucretia reaches over to a brown bound book in the far corner. She flips through the pages, scanning with quick eyes for a passage she knows it there. “Killian—the orc from Costco—”

“I remember her.”

“Yeah. She shouted something about it to us, and I figured that if I started there, I might be able to track them back to their base. But…” Finding the page, she hands it over to Julia and points to the right paragraph. “Armos was destroyed years ago by Taako’s transmutation stone. Apparently, a little girl tried to use it to make some candy and—well, you can guess what happened.”

Julia’s face is tight, brows furrowed as she committed the descriptions of blood turning into syrup and skin softening into marzipan to horrid memory. “Oh my god.”

“There’s a new city built twenty miles due west from it called New Armos. They say that the old one’s still… _like that_ , but I don’t know for sure.”

Julia’s skims down to the bottom of the page. “The Philosopher’s Stone,” she reads aloud. “Gosh, I remember hearing about that one long before I even met you guys.”

“I know that I need to focus on finding the rest of the artefacts,” Lucretia says. “And I am, but I need to do this too. I can’t leave Barry there, and I don’t even know what Lup and Taako must be going through right now.”

Julia puts the book down. Their eyes meet for a flash second, and Lucretia thinks she’s about to be lectured on the casualties of war and the dogs who fall victim to them. This is a war, she thinks as she watches Julia chew on her lip. A private war the whole world is a part of.

Then Julia leans down and wraps her arms around Lucretia’s neck. Coils of dark hair smother her face as she feels the embrace tighten with a smoldering kind of love. “You’re a great person,” Julia mutters, face burying into her bald scalp. “Just incredible, I want to help you.”

Lucretia’s hand reached upwards, fisting the back of the woman’s shirt. “You want to help?”

Julia nods, then pulls away so that Lucretia can see her nod again. “Yeah, Of course.” Her eyes soften, framed by a few wild curls that have strayed from her red bandana. Her own impromptu uniform. “I think we’re all family, and even if I don’t know Barry the best or the twins at all, I have to help them. That’s just what family does, right?”

Lucretia smiles. “Right.” The hand on Julia’s back travels back, sliding up to touch one of the springing coils of hair. Julia tries to hold back a bubble of laughter as she tugs on it. “Oh shit. My hair’s a fucking mess right now.”

“You’re just now realizing it?” Julia asks.

“Give me a break," Lucretia says.

“What about that photographic memory of yours? Do you turn it off at the mirror?”

“Hardy-har-har. Did you learn that in clown school?” Lucretia reaches of her mug again, relieved to find the painted clay still warm. “Wanna do me a favor?”

“No, I don’t do birthdays.” Julia grins.

She snorts. “Seriously. Would you like to partake in the joy of fixing my hair?”

Julia stands a little taller, bringing her own hand down to what remains of her white locks. She curls them around her knuckles, a contemplative line for a mouth as she mulls it over. “I mean, I think we’re just going to have to cut it all off.”

Lucretia sings an “o,” turning to her reflection in Fishcer’s tank. She pulls back her hair, turning her head to show off her bald half. “I’ve always wanted to do something different. And I can finally figure out if its my hair or Merle’s beard that’s clogging up the drain.”

“You can always just shave that half down to something more manageable and do a sort of two-part look.”

“I’ll look like a black-and-white cookie.”

“Oh shit, you’re right.” Julia barks a laugh, her nose crinkling with the mirth. “I’ll go get Magnus’s razor and some scissors. Meet you in the bathroom?”

“Of course.” Julia leaves with a newfound energy in her step.

Lucretia stands, setting aside her mug for good. Her back cracks as she stretches and moves, feeling the knots loosen and ease. Her eyes find a portrait she painted a long time ago, the one of her surrounded by her family. They’re smiling—Magnus grinning as he flexes as the twins hang off one another and make signs with their fingers. Barry stands as stiffly as he always does, a little off to the side, as Merle and Davenport place similar hands on the smalls of each other’s backs. And she stands in the center, surrounded by the warmth of people she knows loves her.

She almost destroyed all of them. Sometimes, when it’s late at night and there’s nothing in the world to keep her distracted, all she can think about it how close she came to tipping the first volume of her journals into Fisher’s tank. One second more, and she would be somewhere completely different.

Lucretia holds a staring contest with the painted form of herself, as if there’s an answer it can give. She’s not even sure what question she’s asking.

Shaking her head, she puts her books away and leaves, the voidfish’s song carrying her out.

* * *

 

“You, uh, seem excited.”

Avi speeds up his chewing, setting his muffin aside as a silly grin overcomes his face. Sildar laughs a little when he sees him hold a hand to his mouth to catch any crumbs before they get all over the single bed in the room. “There’s a race today,” Avi explains. “Out on the outskirts of town. All the best battlewagon racers are going to be there.”

Sildar raises a brow, and the early morning light coming from the opened window catches on the lenses of his glasses. Avi’s supposed to leave it closed, but he can tell that Sildar enjoys being able to hear the bustle of people on the street below. He guesses it makes sense, considering how he spends the majority of the day alone in a guest room devoid of any personality. “You like battlewagon racing?”

“I live for it.”

“Okay, uh. I’m not going to lie,” Sildar says, “but that’s actually the last thing I would’ve expect from you. You know?”

Their morning meals have been a constant since Bane left for Neverwinter, but each sunrise comes with a varying level of success. Some mornings, Sildar is quiet—more melancholic than thoughtful as he chews through whatever meal Avi can scavenge together from the leftovers of Ren’s dinners. There are some days when Sildar seems receptive to whatever Avi wants to say or do, but sharing a morning with anyone is the last thing on Avi’s mind. He can’t explain what those moods mean, but he does his best to at least give their pseudo-prisoner some real company daily.

Today, their separate needs to talk and share overlap.

“And what do you expect from me, professor?” Avi asks.

Sildar scratches his neck, looking a little sheepish. “I mean—from what I gather—battlewagon racing is illegal and you kinda work with some kind of militia guy. I don’t know. It just seems like something you wouldn’t be into.”

“Bane knows, but as long as I’m not actually racing in them, he can’t get mad.” He picks up his muffin again, taking a large bite that stretches his jaw. Through a mouthful of pastry and cranberry, he asks, “have you ever been to one?”

Sildar shrugs. “Never came up in my travels.”

“Well, hey. Let’s go to one someday. Just you and me. We can make masks together and I can even get you up close and personal with the best racers out there.”

A look Avi hasn’t seen in Sildar’s eyes in a long while overcomes his irises once again. He fights to keep his smile up, but Avi can see how his muscles strain to keep it from wavering. “Yeah. Well. Someday, I guess.”

The strife between them is left unvoiced, but the words make something unhinge in him. It’s an odd feeling that knocks and grinds against everything Avi does as he goes to the race.

Steering his bike through the streets of Goldcliff and into the flat, sandy wastes surrounding it should be like relearning an old song, but the handles are awkward under his palms and the engine clicks and growls in a way he doesn’t like. Maybe it’s because it’s Johann occupying his side car. For so long it was Brain, who had his own helmet he decorated with designs of webs and spiders, who leaned into the ripped cushions and complained with an airy voice whenever Avi turned too sharply.

Johann uses one of Avi’s spare helmets, and he clutches his lyre to his chest for dear life because he doesn’t know how to go anywhere without an instrument, even if being a bard is probably going to get him beaten up by all the other connoisseur of high speed and illegal activities in Goldcliff.

The race begins miles out from the city on a long stretch of dusty road that all the racers fight on as they sabotage and plot their way to first place. It’s the audience’s choice of what part of the race to watch, but Avi prefers the end where he can see up close the desperate reach for the three cash prizes available, then the savage scuffle that follows to not be last. Dozens upon dozens of battlewagons and bikes are parked along the last few yards of the track—the audience lazing about as they aim their binoculars towards the source of the dust cloud looming on the horizon and the rapidly moving dots of color causing it. Avi weaves his bike between people with blanket and foldable chair set ups until he finds a space between two battlewagons—one with an elf and an orc sitting on the hood, another with an open roof with a squad of gnomes piled inside.

Avi parks and drops the kickstand, groaning as he swings his leg off his seat. “You’re safe to move now,” he says, tugging his helmet off. His long hair is pulled into a bun on top of his head, with a few pieces falling out and sticking to his sweat-soaked skin. A dark bandana is tied around the lower half of his face, concealing his identity from any possible undercover militia men.

Johann struggles to lift himself out of the sidecar—awkward legs flaying everywhere as he nearly loses balance a dozen times. He’s wearing his usual patterned pants that balloon around his thighs, and if not for the helmet he had to wear, his matching cap would surely be on as well. Everything about him screams _bard,_ and he sticks out as an unmuted pop of color against a crowd of black leather and plain worker’s gear. “Dude, I’m not going to lie, but nothing about that drive was safe.”

Avi shrugs, tugging off his own leather jacket to tie around his waist. His usual work overalls and rolled sleeve shirt fits the demographic, but now he only ever wears it here. Bane never said not to, but he knows the kind of impression it'll leave on the man if he came back from a relic hunt wearing leather. “Hey, I get you’re new to this whole thing. I drove very safely for you.”

Johann sits on the edge of the sidecar. “And you haven’t been drinking?”

“I don’t drink and drive.” Avi pulls a bag from the floor of the sidecar, riffles through it, before pulling out a theater mask. He tosses it at Johann. “Put this on and don’t take it off unless I tell you to.”

As Johann grumbles about the loss of artistic identity, Avi fishes out his own pair of binoculars. He presses them to his eyes, and the battle between the top racers is immediately in focus. He can see the towering wagon of the Hammerheads is in the lead, but a modest wagon is bringing it up on the rear. Recognizing the model, Avi grins pulls the binoculars away. “Hey, you wanna catch a peek?” he asks.

Johann sighs. The theater mask barely fits his face with his most recognizable feature—his port wine stain—seeping out from the edges like an oil spill. “I guess.”

“If you don’t want to look, you can just say so.”

Johann strums a few strings, drawing the attention of the elf and orc sitting on their battlewagon’s hood. “I mean, what else is there to do?”

“I know this isn’t your jam, but I think you’ll find it’s really fun if you’ll give it the chance.”

Johann thinks about it for a moment, then takes the binoculars. “Did you make Brian do this too?” he asks.

Avi has to think about his response. “I mean, I didn’t _make_ him. He asked about it and I tried to get him into it. I think he was only here for the drama of it.”

Johann sighs as he looks into the binoculars. “Oh, _Brian_.”

He tries to jerk the direction of the conversation back into something he can talk about. “Okay, so see the two wagons in the lead? The bigger one is the Hammerheads, and you know everything about them, right?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, um, that’s the whole history of Goldcliff’s dark underworld right there. I guess we’ll forget that. Um, it’s not really necessary, so… we’re rooting for the wagon in second place right now. The smaller one? That’s the Raven and Ram.”

Johann looks up from the binoculars. “What underworld niche or something are they a part of?”

“If they don’t want me to kick their butts, none.”

At this, Johann’s mouth quivers, which is the closest he can usually come to making a smile. Dourly, he passes the binoculars back to Avi before slumping back into the sidecar. “Okay, so what now?”

“We wait, make bets as to who’s going to win, and generally enjoy our time here.”

Johann sighs, his fingers sliding over the strings of the lyre like butter on a hot plate.

Avi does his best not to copy his sour look. “You wanted to come with, Johann. You could’ve stayed at the apartment instead—have the whole place to yourself and everything.”

“I just don’t like being there alone with that guy in the spare room,” Johann says. “Every time I’m in there, it’s like he doesn’t really look at me or you or anyone. It’s like he’s looking at something beyond—and you know that static thing he does? That’s, like, fucked up.”

Avi rolls his eyes. “Sildar’s a cool guy. Yeah, he’s a little quiet but he can’t hurt us.”

“There’s something off about him. Like, has it occurred to you that he’s never gotten mad at us? He just chills there all day.”

“Would you rather he actually tries to kill you?”

“Someone who’s scared would try to. Avi, he’s not scared. So I’m scared because what can a guy who we know is really smart and really good at magic know that we don’t that would make it so that he’s not scared.”

“You lost me.”

Johann groans. “Killian agrees with me, you know. She thinks it’s really weird that you spend every morning with him and he doesn’t, like, try doing anything.”

“Maybe he has tried something and I didn’t tell you,” Avi says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Johann gives him a blank look. “I’m, like, all for being a good person. I think that there’s no point to the world if we don’t do our best to be good people. Avi—we know he’s not a good dude. He’s bad enough that even Lucas fired him.”

“The brat hasn’t said why yet,” Avi points out.

“Whatever. It’s just—sometimes, I think the things Bane wants us to do is not because he’s a jerk, but because he doesn’t want us to get hurt. That’s why rules are there in the first place.”

“This is the most I’ve heard you speak at one time,” Avi says.

Johann sings another woeful sigh. “Of course, you’re a bad boy who just likes to break the rules.”

Avi almost laughs. “What the hell? Where did you get any of that?”

Johann throws at hand towards the every encroaching cloud of dust. “You used to do this, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, because I needed money for food.”

“Worker Bee.”

Hearing his old nickname, Avi turns to see two thugs in jackets emblazoned with the Hammerhead insignia. They’re mean and burly, arms crossed over their chests as the redhead looks him up and down. “That’s you?” one of the thugs says, chewing on the end of his toothpick.

“No,” Johann says right as Avi copies their stances and says, “that’s not my name anymore.”

Johann snorts. “Your name is Worker Bee?”

Avi kicks a foot back, rocking the sidecar enough to make Johann shout. “Shut it.”

“The boss wants to see you,” the first thug says. His eyes skip over to where Johann is grumbling, glare sharp enough to make the bard pale and fall silent. “And your friend.”

“If it’s a job offer, tell her she knows I’m not in business anymore,” Avi says.

The second thug, whose voice is high and shrill, sneers. “You’re just gonna have to tell her that yourself, Bee.”

Avi swallows. “She can come to me,” he says, feeling himself wince with every word. He hasn’t worked under the Hammerheads for years now, but only because Bane took pity on him and gave him a way out of that life. But that pity gives Avi no power over the Hammerheads or any of the people who can ruin his life in an instant.

The first thug raises a brow before cracking his fists—a final warning.

Avi does the math, runs through every possible reason the Hammerhead boss would want to talk to him. None of them are good, but he can live through whatever it is. Johann, however, might shit himself. “My… _companion_ stays here,” Avi says. “I don’t want anyone jacking my bike.”

“Both of you,” the first thugs says.

“Do you want to know how much a bike I made is worth?” Avi demands.

The thug with the shrill voice swaggers to the bike. “I’ll watch over it,” he says, slapping the seat none too kindly. “You never know with a Bee original.”

Avi glares, knowing he's lost. “If so much as single chip of paint is out of place, I will know.”

The thug snickers, and really that’s the best response Avi could’ve hoped for.

He grabs Johann’s arm and drags him to his feet, ignoring his slew of protests as they follow after the first thug. They stride down the line of idling wagons and audience members, most turning an eye the moment they see the Hammerhead insignia. “What’s going on?” Johann asks, his knuckles white as he grips his lyre.

Avi shoots his a sharp look. “Tone it down,” he hisses.

Johann stumbles over his awkward feet. “But like, what the fuck dude? You just said you didn’t do this shit anymore.”

“I. Don’t.” It comes out harsher than Avi wants, and he has to take a moment to bite back his frustrations and breathe. “I mean—just, don’t say anything. Do what I do, and let me handle this.”

Johann grumbles and aims his eyes on the ground. It’s a promise, albeit a reluctant one.

Near the finish line, a behemoth of a battlewagon stands. Looming two dozen feet in the air, Avi can’t help but to feel the awe at the intricate wood and metal detailing. The henchmen guarding the wagon part for them, then step back together the moment Johann’s foot is past the line. They’re trapped.

Lounging in a foldable chair beside the wagon is a stout woman—large in every sense as she props a nonexistent chin on a curled hand. A shark mask conceals the upper half of her face, and her purple hair is piled and braided into a caricature of its signature fin. She sees Avi, and gives a smile that can make wine spoil. “Well, well. It’s our favorite worker bee,” she says in that yanking lilt common to every member of her gang. “A prodigal son returned home.”

Avi stands a little taller, feeling Johann’s panic spike next to him. He hooks a finger under his bandana and pulls it down, revealing the rest of his face. “You dragged me here.”

She almost laughs. “You’ve gotten ballsy.”

“Just tell me what you want so that I can go back to watching the race.”

She points a stubby finger. “Who’s your bard friend?”

Avi places a hand on Johann, pushing him further behind his gangly frame. “I’ve paid my debts fair and square. Why am I here?”

This time, her eyes are sharp. “I’ll give you one more chance to answer me. Who’s the bard?”

He swallows, feeling Johann start to shake against his palm. “A friend,” he says at last.

Her eyes flit towards Johann, fully drinking in his colorful appearance for the first time. She curls a finger at him, and Avi slowly steps to the side to let Johann come forward. The half elf shuffles, shoulders petrified at rapt attention. “Uh—” His voice cracks, and he bangs a fist against his chest in a way that makes her smile wry. “Uh, I’m Johann. The bard.”

“And where did that little worker bee pick you up?”

“We’re—uh, I guess Avi and I are pals. Like, from work.”

The leader of the Hammerheads looks at Avi again. “The last any of us heard from you, you’d fucked off from whatever small time gig you were doing in our parts and joined the militia academy.” She reaches down and picks up a brown bottle. “You’re a cop.”

“I flunked out,” Avi says, which is only half truth. He saved up whatever money from his racing winnings he could to apply to the school, but only after he handed over the application fees did he learn that his record made him unqualified.

“It’s what you get from trying to do anything in this rigged town.” She snaps her fingers. “Bard. Play us a song.”

“Uh…” Johann glances back at Avi, who can only frown and nod. “I guess okay.” Raising his lyre, Johann closes his eyes and plucks a few notes that soon turn and blend into a somber melody.

“Well.” The boss grins with every pointed tooth in her mouth. “Ain’t that just something special. You have a gift, bard.”

Johann rolls his shoulders as a response, throwing all his concentration into the back and forth of his fingers over the strings.

“You know, here I was about to order your death warrant, but your friend here is such a nice guy that I’ll be nice with ya as well.”

Avi frowns, working through the logic of the sentence for a place—any, really—he can grab hold of and wretch some molecule of control back. “What death warrant? I’ve been leaving you guys alone for years.”

The boss swirls the liquid in the brown bottle, letting the sunlight dance. “You hear about Phandalin? It’s this small ass town in the buck wild middle of nowhere. Nobody never heard of the damn place before everyone’s mom started yakking about how gone it is. And my boys tell me you were nowhere in this here town when it happened.”

His Adam’s apple feels sore, as if it’s inflating to clog his throat. He swallows and swallows to keep his windpipe open, but it only closes up more. “I travel. For work.”

“ _Mmm-hmm_. Coincidence, I’m sure. I’m thinking the exact same thing until a dear business partner of mine met a very sudden end. You’ve heard of him, surely. Garfield?”

Avi knows he’s fucked. “Can’t say I have.”

“Strange. You were in Neverwinter when it happened. And, since you aren’t a cop, I half expect you to be one of those Red Robes they’re all talking about over there.” She grins, all teeth. “Now, rumors of what happened there haven’t reached here yet but that ain’t going to stop the fact that my business partner is dead because of whatever you’ve been doing with those—what are they called? Grand items?”

“Relics. They’re relics.”

Her eyes narrow and her grin stretches outwards until all Avi can think about are the stray cats that prowl alleys for any rat they can maul. “I’m a generous woman. I can forgive you for leaving my ranks all too soon—and, I’ll even give you an offer you can’t refuse. The Raven and Ram duo have been stealing wins from us left and right, and I know one little battlewagon from your hands is gonna snatch the rug out from right under them.”

“I have a job, and I have no debts to you,” Avi says. “So, no.”

“I’ll pay you double whatever you’re getting now. Anything to get the best mechanic in Goldcliff back on the right side of the tracks.” She raises her bottle for a toast. “I’ll even throw in some rewards for those relics you’re going to help us find. I have plenty a person interested in buying something that can make anything appear out of nowhere.”

“The answer is no.” Avi taps Johann’s back, forcing him to draw his song to an end. “I appreciate the offer, but we’re going to go now.”

“I don’t think you understand me.” The gang of tough guys surrounded them seem to cinch inwards. “I’m not asking.”

Before Avi can rattle off a swear, Johann jams his fingers down the lyre’s strings. Sound blasts like a punch to the gut, sending everyone reeling in his wake.

Avi stumbles back a few steps, yelping as the noise inflates the veins in his brain until they seem ready to burst. A hand wraps around his arm—Johann—and he’s being dragged through the line of disorientated guards and through the line of stalled vehicles and onlookers.

His feet scrap on the dusty ground, and Avi stumbles as the shock fades and his mind clears. Johann’s hand has moved from his arm and to his hand, gripping his fingers with white knuckles as he sprints. Avi blinks, then barks a laugh that surprises even him. “Fuck! You did that!”

“Yeah.” He’s running too fast to talk, pants breaking up every syllable.

Avi speeds up until he’s the one guiding Johann hand-in-hand around the battle wagons and picnic blankets as the humdrum of the approaching racers draw closer.

Then there are sirens.

Johann skids to a stop, inevitably, yanking Avi back. On the horizon, coming from the city line of Goldcliff, they see the blinking lights of the militia’s battlewagons. A new siren wails through the air—this time from the race’s lookout. All around them, engines roar to life as every person scrambles to load into their vehicles and escape. Even the racers, hearing the siren, veer away from the finish line and start racing into the canyons to hide.

Fear spikes through Avi as he quickly hooks his bandana back over his face and starts pulling Johann away. “We gotta go!”

It takes them far too long to sprint back to Avi’s bike. The thug guarding the bike is gone, and Avi can’t blame him as he tosses Johann his helmet and pulling on his own. Being arrested for battlewagon racing is not a good look for anyone’s record, and Avi has three already.

Avi looks down at the sidecar, knowing immediately how slowed their escape will be. “Shit. Johann, grab our stuff.” Deft hands reach to the bolts connecting the two together, and Avi finds a small latch. A tug, and the supports keeping the sidecar connected break free.

Avi throws his leg over his bike’s seat. “Hop on.”

The moment he feels Johann’s weight behind him, arms wrapped around his middle until his ribs crack, Avi revs the engine. They speed off, a cloud of dust in their wake, Johann screaming the whole time.

The world becomes nothing more than Avi, the weaving of his bike between wagons and spectators, and the blockade of militia wagons closing them in. There’s too many of them, lined up to prevent a return to Goldcliff’s city streets. If Avi has to guess, they’ve already lined the ground twenty yards behind their wall of wagons with spikes that will destroy the tires of any driver luck enough to get past the first line. A prepared racer would have supplies in their wagons to camp out a few days in the desert to avoid arrest, but Avi didn’t come prepared like that. They’re just going to have to push through.

Avi leans into the turn of his bike, hearing Johann shout as they start driving along the length of the blockade. “I have a plan,” he shouts over the roar and din of hundreds of motors. Johann grips his middle tighter to raise himself up, getting his ear as close to Avi’s mouth as possible. “We’re going to go through the blockade! Grab a shield!”

“What!”

“A shield! A militia shield!”

Johann shouts something Avi doesn’t understand, but he has to trust it's an agreement. Gritting his teeth, Avi lands his glare on a group of bikers a few yards ahead. He speeds up, letting his engine roar. Wind punches his face, and his eyes tear from the force, but he nonetheless pulls up next to the last person in the biker gang—a halfing man with bare arms that flaunt an abundance of tattoos. “Sorry!” Avi shouts. The man shoots a look at Avi seconds before Avi jams their bikes together.

The halfing man jerks his bike away, careening himself into the front of one of the battlewagons making the blockade. It opens a gap in the line, one that wagons and others immediately start funneling through.

Avi makes a U turn, bringing them through the hole in the blockade. All around them, militia men are climbing out of their wagons with crossbows and shields, aiming them at whatever they can. Avi leans into a turn, bringing them closer to the militia man standing on the wreckage Avi created. “Now!”

Johann reaches out a hand, humming a spell to improve his strength, and manages to grab onto the edge of the shield.

The militia man shouts—his arm is strapped to it—before falling over as he is dragged along with the shield over rocks and dirt. “Shit fuck shit—” Johann jerks the shield closer to himself, fumbling with one hand to undo the buckles around the militia man’s forearm. Avi weaves the bike in the meantime, avoiding heading for the line of spikes too soon and the crossbow bolts aiming for his tires.

Johann undoes the last buckle, and finally the militia man free—left in the dust to lick his burning wounds. “I got it,” Johann says, panting as he holds up the shield.

With one hand, Avi takes the shield, turning the bike to finally head towards the spikes. “Hopefully this works,” he says before tossing the shield onto the spikes twenty feet away. It lands crookedly, but it’ll do in a pinch.

The bard squawks. “What do you mean—”

The shield rumbles and cracks as the bike drives over it, breaking asunder as the last tire glides onto the dirt on the other side of the spike line.

Avi whoops, raising a fist in victory as the thrill overcomes him as he speeds up for the last long stretch of land between them and the city. Johann groans and sends prayers and swears for any deity willing to listen.

* * *

 

They reenter the city through one of the less popular gates, slipping through the militia with no issue. The last sparks of excitement pump through Avi’s veins as he coasts through the side streets, taking the long way back to the merchant distract their apartment is in. He feels Johann’s arms around him like a reassuring hug, feeling the bards chest vibrate from a hummed song that Avi feels on his back.

Too soon, they’re at the back entrance of Leon’s shop, Avi jumping off the bike in order to push it through the door. The storage room is organized to a fault, all of its cabinets and shelves taking up more space than the air. When Avi finds the corner between a crate and a shelf fifty levels high he commandeered as a parking space, Johann rolls off.

Johann clutches a hand to his chest as he pants. “Holy fuck,” he says.

“Terrifying, but fun,” Avi replies, tugging his helmet off.

“No. Holy fuck as in holy fuck that was horrible. How many times have you done that?”

“Plenty.” Avi shrugs. “I mean, I’ve gotten caught a lot.”

“Fuck me,” Johann says.

“Hey. You wanted to come to the illegal thing.”

“Bane’s going to kill us,” Johann says with rising horror. “That’s only if Killian doesn’t and that’s only if that shark woman doesn’t.”

“That is a problem.” He frowns, thinking it through for a moment. “I mean, the Hammerheads don’t ever come to this part of town, but they’ve also been keeping track of me, so this is actually probably horrible.”

Johann snorts. “Inspiring. You should be the bard.”

Avi shakes his head, wishing he could already be upstairs with a glass filled with something strong. “Listen, Johann. I’m sorry that all that stuff happened. Like, I didn’t know what was going to happen. And, like, I didn’t want anyone to really have to see it.”

“I’ve known you’re some kind of criminal.” Johann pulls himself back onto his feet.

“Yeah, okay. I just—” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not judging you, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He swings their bag onto his shoulder. “Look, I’m tired.”

Johann frowns, scrambling to follow his long strides into the store front. They both give half-hearted waves at Leon, who nods in their direction before returning to the wand he crafts at his workbench. Johann waits until they’re trekking up the narrow staircase to speak up. “Seriously, though. Are we okay?”

Avi sighs, pushing the door at the top opens. The cool air of the apartment floods them, revealing an empty living room and kitchen. The girls are still out. He drops the bag onto the ground. “I’m okay. Just want a drink.”

“We could go get food if you’re hungry,” Johann offers. A pause, eyes tracking Avi’s stiff movements to the liquor cabinet. “You don’t need to—”

“Not today.” He doesn’t bother pouring a glass, simply selecting the first bottle that looks good and taking a long swing. He turns his back, feeling more than hearing Johann kick his shoes off before ambling to his room off of the kitchen.

Swallowing the last of what burns like boiling water, Avi gasps. He leans into the wall for a moment, breathing in the motes of dust in the air as the thick sheen of sweat weighs heavy on his skin like a plate of metal. He stares at the wall for a moment before realizing that the plaster is really a wood door and it’s the wood door Sildar is behind.

He starts for it, getting across the room in a few large steps. His hands wraps around the knob.

“Don’t.” Johann stands at the door to his own room, a hand on the frame as he stares Avi down. “Seriously, man. Don’t.”

Avi knows that if he stops, he’s only going to lie down in his own room—drinking until he doesn’t care about the empty bunk above him, until his vision gets hazy and he doesn’t have to look at the posters on the wall that aren’t his own. “Stop worrying,” he says, before turning his back to Johann. He knocks. “It’s Avi. I’m coming in.”

The window in Sildar’s room is closed, making the air inside feel like cotton. The human has his hand propped on his chin, glasses off and between his fingers to fidget as he thinks. The moment he notices Avi, he shoves them back on, startled. “Uh, hey,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

Avi smiles, crossing the room to pull open the window. Fresh air blows in immediately. “I just got back from the race.”

“Oh.” Sildar looks out the open door, catches sight of Johann watching them. “Did it, uh—did it go well?”

“Nope. Damn thing turned into a fiery pile of horseshit.” He pulls up his usual chair, glad to get off his tired feet. “How’s your day been?”

Sildar shrugs. “I don’t know. Just thought about stuff all day.”

“Shit. I gotta get you a book or something.”

Sildar laughs, and Avi gets a moment to realize that he hasn’t seen an expression quite like this before. “That would be pretty cool. What happened at the race?”

Avi puts the bottle of liquor on the ground, freeing his hands. “Alright. Where do I begin?”

* * *

 

Stevie bangs the wooden sword into the side of a pillow encased mannequin. “Hold on,” Magnus says. She pauses, panting a little as he studies her stance. He kneels and adjusts her feet. “Stagger these a bit more, and bend your knees a little. You’ll have better balance, okay?”

Stevie nods. “Okay.”

He smiles, standing to ruffle the hair on her head. Knotted black strands pull out of her ponytail, streaking across her face like wild scribbles. “Try it again, bear cub.”

She strikes the mannequin again, the sound of it echoing over the _Starblaster’s_ deck.

“Your knees,” Magnus says, letting himself take a seat on the stairs leading up to the helm. Merle is already there, trimming a plant as he allows it to soak up natural sunlight. A martini to the side for himself. “Keep them bent!”

Stevie makes a noise of frustration, bending her knees a little too much as she hits the mannequin in rapid succession.

“You know, I’m kinda amazed you’re actually teaching her sword fighting,” Merle says, running his fingers up and down the green stalk.

Magnus cocks a brow. “What?”

“She’s been begging you forever.” Merle picks up his martini glass, playing with the umbrella at the edge before taking a small sip. “Literally, you were saying last year that you were going to wait until she was older and this week alone you’ve taught her the basics of wrestling, crossbows, and now sword fighting.”

Magnus shrugs. “Yeah, Julia and I were originally going to wait until she was thirteen to start her on any of this, you know? Stevie’s been saying for years that she wants to be an adventurer, but she’s like ten so she might grow out of it. And Raven Roost’s school system has this program where the kids have to learn some kind of trade, so we were thinking that by the time that started she might want to learn what Julia and I do.” He pauses, realizing how much he’s rambling. “It’s just, things are different now. I think I’ll sleep better knowing she has something under her belt.”

Merle stares at him for a moment. Then he laughs.

“What?” Magnus says.

“You’ve selled out.”

“Have not—”

“If you told me ten years ago that the young kid who didn’t know how to wear a shirt would be a good dad, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Magnus replies. “Sure feels like I’m messing up all the time more than anything.”

Merle takes another drink. “Listen—that kid’s going to turn out okay. Despite anyone’s best efforts, most kids do. And this one has two pretty cool people for parents to bat.”

Right as a light laugh comes from him, an awful crack resounds through the air. Magnus whips his attention back to Stevie, heart hammering when he sees her standing before the mannequin, the wood sword in her hand in two pieces. She looks between the fallen piece on the ground and the hilt in her hands, her mouth opened in shock. “Uh…”

Magnus stands, speechless as he hears Merle roar with laughter. “How did you do that?” he asks, marching over to her to check the damage.

“I don’t know! I was just swinging it!”

Magnus picks up the broken piece, frowning at where the wood has splintered. His daughter has a certain knack for destroying most everything she touches. He really should’ve seen this coming. “You just might be too strong for a wood sword, bear cub.”

“I’m sorry.”

He pauses, looking down at her. Her voice hasn’t been that small since the time he caught her picking on a smaller kid. He’d railed at her for what felt like hours about being a good person, and afterwards all she could do was sniffle and apologize. He searches her face or any sign of what’s going on beneath, but she just stares at her broken half. He releases a long breath, clasping a hand on her head. “That’s not a bad thing. It just means Momma and I are going to have to think about getting you something sturdier. We might even get you your own sword, isn’t that cool?”

She’s kicks the ground weakly. “I guess.”

Magnus doesn’t know what to say. This is daughter, and for as long as he’s known her, she’s always wanted to be some great adventurer. She should be bursting with enough energy to make Merle grumble from his safe distance away. She was going at the mannequin pretty hard though, he thinks. Maybe she just wore herself out.

“I think we’re done for today,” he says, knowing he’s going to have to talk to Julia again. They have to figure out how to make her feel better. “Go rest up before dinner, okay?”

She nods and escapes as quickly as she can.

Magnus sighs, looking towards Merle. The dwarf shrugs and drinks his martini.

Below deck, Stevie scurries to her room. It’s not her room because her room is back in Raven’s Roost. She knows from the books detailing advance arcana still on the shelves and the posters on the wall of unheard bands of bards that this one used to be Aunt Lup’s. But it’s supposed to be her room now.

Even after all these months, it still feels as though this is a hotel room she’s going to have to evacuate at any given moment. Half of her clothes are still in her bag, and what isn’t is strewn across the floor in lumpy mounds. Her figurines are arranged between them, her mind selling the lumps of clothes as imaginary mountains for her warrior self to fight among. She set them up a week ago, but haven’t really found the drive to continue the quest.

Closing the door to the room shut—sealing herself safe inside—she tiptoes around them, wincing when she knocks one over, before jumping onto her bed. She curls a blanket around herself until she can’t breathe anything but the soft yarn.

She’s going to get her own sword—and that’s cool. She knows it’s cool. Her heart soars as it agrees. She feels the gears in her brain whirl and hum as it conjures pictures of herself slashing and parrying at faceless enemies. She can see the shield she’ll earn to match her sheath, and the armor that she’ll wear. But then she sees her twirling turn into a stab through the chest, and she can see the face of Piper pale as her eyes roll backwards. Then Piper’s face becomes Aunt Lucretia’s as it rips apart by a force she knows is hidden in Uncle Dav’s office.

Over and over again she sees her mom and dad kiss her head and promise to return before never coming back. She can feel how one day the _Starblaster_ will rock with an attack, and how a sword will be pressed to her hand with the condition that she saves her own life.

She squeezes her eyes shut until her head hurts, feeling a dark tugging in her mind. She wants adventure. She’s always wanted to be a hero, but now that the time is coming she’s just a big baby. She doesn’t want to be. She doesn’t want _this—_

The blanket is gone.

She’s sitting upright.

Stevie opens her eyes slowly, then all at once.

First she sees a long table stretching from one side of the room to another, one that feels both longer and shorter than it should be. There’s no door, but there is a long window. The sun sets low on the horizon, flushing the plain desk and her brown skin in an orange hue. Higher in the sky, Stevie sees swirls of _something._ It’s black with every color of the rainbow fighting for dominance, crawling outwards the same way frost consumes a window pane.

“What—” Opposite of her sits a man. He’s much older than her with salt and pepper hair trimmed to perfection. From the collar of his sleek suit, the same black in the sky stretches up the column of his neck and cross onto the lower half of his face.

Bright blue eyes stare at her with shock as the room begins with rumble. Everything except the man and the darkness growing on his skin blurs into a shaking haze that makes her head spin. The walls twist—the plaster wanting to morph into stained wood. An awful noise screeches through the air, and Stevie swears that she can feel her ear drums break and bleed. Whimpering, she scrambles for any kind of purchase—on the edge of her chair, the corner of the table—but the world is still shifting and turning. Everything is out of reach.

“You’re just a child,” the man says. He’s solid, consistent. Stevie keeps her eyes on him, watching as she ignores how the space around her melts. He raises a hand, holds it for a moment, then looks at his palm in shock. “Okay… fine. Let’s see if…”

Stevie’s stomach bends and twists, and she’s opening her eyes to see the ceiling of Aunt Lup’s room.

The yarn blanket cocoons her, and she squirms to lift her face from the warmth. Feverish sweat drenches her as a chill rattles through every bone in her spine. Staring at the ceiling, she lets the deaf silence of her room awash her as she swallows saliva down her dry throat. Something tells her that someone is going to knock on her door any moment. She holds her breath, waits for it to come, but it never does. She’s alone.

Making a strangled noise, Stevie kicks away the blanket. She stretches out her limbs like a starfish, letting the cool air of the ship dry her sweat away. Whatever that was, she wants to call it a nightmare, but something tells her that this is different. Strange and different.

That man’s eyes were blue. Bright, blue, and scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter honestly should be broken up into two parts, but I cannot make you guys wait any longer for the start of the next relic hunt. So, here's your extra long chapter filled with set up that's not going to pay off for many a chapter in the future. I really do feel bad because I feel like the majority of this chapter can be interpreted as filler if you didn't know what details are going to be relevant later (I'm the author so I kind of know, but still).
> 
>  
> 
> If you want more notes on everything in the chapter, especially since we're getting into what Stevie's arc actually is, you can find my extended chapter notes and a preview of the next chapter here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/173715529161/northern-migration-chapter-12-notes-and-next
> 
>  
> 
> As always, I'm shouting out a big thank you to all of you for being so patient with me as I write stuff that isn't the Taako arc that I've been promising. You all have been really great about it, and I hope that once it starts, it'll live up to at least three of your expectations. Thank you, thank you, thank you!


	13. In Which Julia Receives a Very Special Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bane and Angus meet with Lord Artemis Sterling. Magnus tries to buy Stevie a sword of her own. Julia reunites with an old friend.

Two weeks his ass—if there’s one thing Bane hates about doing business in Neverwinter, it’s how long it takes to do everything.

Early autumn in Faerun is spending the mornings freezing until the sun is high in the sky long enough to heat world again. Hands carry shed jackets and robes throughout the afternoon as everyone looks to the trees and waits for the leaves to change color. Even with the rising heat, Bane keeps his uniform jacket on as he treks across a stony pavilion, nodding at whatever royal court worker he makes eye contact with as he makes his way to the council room. Despite arriving in the capital city within a week of receiving his summons, he’s been waiting around until the Council of Lords has to time to actually talk to him. Which, the longer he thinks about how he’s the one who was summoned, the more annoying it is.

But now he’s here and going to get this off his plate so that he can go back to Goldcliff and actually do his job.

The council room is in a grand building framed in white pillars—words of an ancient language inscribed at the top that dictates the limits of power. A mural depicting every race from every corner of the land joining hands in harmony decorates the front doors, where two knights stand at rapt attention. Bane reaches into his militia coat, ready to pull out the summons that proves he should be here, when a bright voice pipes up. “Hello Captain Bane, sir!”

Bane slows his steps until stopping completely, his teeth grinding together as he curbs his annoyance. “Angus McDonald,” he says, turning to see the little boy standing behind him. “What in every gods’ name are you doing here?”

Angus holds his hands behind his back, smiling so that the adorable gap between his front teeth is on display. “I have a summons from the Council of Lords.”

“What.” Bane feels every inch of his previous enthusiasm rot away as he watches Angus reach into the pocket of his smart jacket and pull out the exact same sealed envelope he has. “I can’t fu—” He grunts, reminding himself that this pain in the ass is still only ten. “Why would Lord Sterling want with you?”

“I am the world’s greatest detective.”

He huffs, starting his last stretch to the entrance. “That’s debatable.”

Angus trots next to him, cheeks puffing. “I mean—I’m not saying that to be a braggart. Of all the current working detectives in Faerun, my case to completion ratio is superb.”

“Sure kid.”

Angus takes a deep breath, holding all his bravo to his chest. “You know, I think it’s very immature of you to mitigate my successes due to your own insecurities.” He throws his hands up in the air. “Not to say that you _are_ insecure, I just mean that putting me down to bolster your own ego is doing no one a favor.”

“You are your mother’s son,” Bane says as he finally reaches the doorway. He pulls out his own envelop, letting the knight look it over as he pointedly ignores the way Angus manages to brighten while his own mood dampens.

The knight salutes him before pushing the door open. He steps inside, his boots creating booms that echo through the marble masterpiece. Paintings line the walls as people mill about, many lining up at the single desk on the far side of the circular chamber. An orc man sits behind there, looking over papers and summons before sending someone this way and that—mapping out where this office is and how this lord is out on break I’m so sorry can I leave him a message? He hears Angus get stop by the knight for his own envelope, and Bane has to convince himself that he’s very interested in the painted mural of all the planes depicted on the dome ceiling.

Bane remembers Irene, somewhat. They went to academy together—her a rich girl who can afford to do anything but militia work, and him a young man with no clue where he was going. She knew everyone, so inevitably she knew him. They didn’t have nicknames for each other (they weren’t close enough for that), but once a week they and a group of friends would jog ten miles through the woods together. Their paces were similar, and to this day he still remembers how her curly hair stuck to her scalp and mud painted her calves as they paced themselves through the rain.

After graduation, Bane only heard whispers of what she did with her life. She got a job at the prestigious Neverwinter militia, then left it to become a private eye. She married a noble woman as rich as herself, and they had a son. He can see bits and pieces of Irene in Angus still, but that only manages to make him even more obnoxious.

“You waited for me,” Angus says as the knight finally lets him inside.

Bane doesn’t say anything. He takes his eyes off the depiction of the planes orbiting each other in harmony and goes to the front desk.

The orc takes one look at their envelope and points to one of the hallways. “Room seventy-forty is right down there on your left. You’ll be meeting with Lord Sterling personally.”

“I thought that this summons was from all the lords,” Bane says, taking his envelope back to review the sparse instructions.

“At the beginning, yes. But it was determined a month ago that Lord Sterling would be taking over for the _Midsummer Project_.”

Bane scrunches his brows. “The what?”

Down the hall, in a room seventy-forty, there is a regal waiting area and another receptionist. Once again they show their summons, but this time they’re pointed to the plush couch in the corner and asked the wait.

Bane decides that Angus is only sitting so close to him as he swings his penny loafers back and forth because the kid’s decided to make his life a living hell. There’s few things worse than watching Angus pull out a little notebook from who knows where and starts jolting down incoherent notes—Johann playing the same damn song over and over again in order to perfect one note being one of them. Bane amazes himself by deciding that the way Leon complains about Killian leaving her stuff all over his apartment is not one.

After a few minutes and a quiet conversation over a stone of farspeech, the receptionist stands and holds the finely carved door behind their desk open. “Lord Sterling will see you now.”

“Thank you!” Angus chirps, jumping off the couch in an instant. He adjusts his bowtie to perfection, then makes sure that the curls sticking out from his cap doesn’t look messy. When he looks up at Bane as the man stretches and adjusts his own jacket, he gives two thumbs up.

Bane doesn’t spare a remark, only shaking his head and starting for the doorway.

Sterling’s office is built from stone—the bluish gray kind that incase tide pools at the beach. An aquatic theme runs throughout the portraits of the northeastern coast that adorn the walls—simple and blue as they transport him to some of his family’s more scenic holdings. Sterling himself is a vivid splash of brightness in the dreary room as he sits behind his stone desk, organizing a few papers before rising to his feet. His hair is so blond that it might as well be white, and it camouflages into his pale skin so finely that anyone will have trouble telling where the gelled strands of hair and the sharply cut of his head divide.

Bane places his hand to his forehead in a salute as Angus places both arms to his side and gives a practiced bow.

“Thank you for coming,” Sterling says, motioning them both to be at ease. He crosses in front of his desk, showing off his fine navy suit is framed to the ground by his regal cape. He reaches out a slim hand adorned with a ring on every knuckle, and Bane takes it in a strong grip. “Captain Captain Bane of the Goldcliff Militia. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“I am always glad to serve the land,” Bane replies.

Sterling smiles in a way that congratulates Bane for knowing the finer points of military civility. He turns his attention to Angus now—so tall and lean that he bends in order to look down at Angus properly. “And the young McDonald,” he says, taking Angus's hand in his. "I’m glad to see you here. My condolences for the passing of Lord Benedict McDonald. He will be missed.”

Angus smiles. “Considering he gambled the McDonald lands away and died more than three years ago, I don’t think any condolences are needed.”

Bane waits for the shock on Sterling’s face to turn into outrage, but instead the corners of his eyes crinkle with laughter. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. You would’ve made a fine lord, Angus.”

“I make a better detective,” Angus says. “So, what is the Midsummer Project?”

“It’s quite the mission—take a seat, both of you. Would either of you like any drinks. Water? Liquor? Apple juice?”

“We’re both fine,” Bane says, taking one of the large seats before the stone desk. He waits for Angus to override his vote and ask for something, but instead the boy climbs onto his seat and pulls out his notepad once more. Behind his large glasses, his eyes are serious as he waits for Sterling to retake his place behind the desk and get started. Bane guesses that if he didn’t have anything left to his name but a meaningless detective title, he would also take it very seriously.

“As you both may have guessed, this meeting is primarily about the current concerns of the people of Faerun.” Sterling steeples his fingers. “Ever since the incident at midsummer, there have been rumors through the land that the… _apocalypse_ is coming. Unfortunately, there was a brawl at Fantasy Costco over a month ago that only lead to these rumors being inflated.”

“Captain Davenport and the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration,” Angus supplies.

Sterling raises a brow. “Most have taken to just calling them the Red Robes.”

Angus shrugs. “I’ve just been doing some research, sir.”

Bane stares down at the kid for a moment, feeling his nails dig into the heels of his hands. He knows Angus was involved that day, but does Angus know what role Bane plays in this?

“I’m glad to hear that detective. The purpose of this project is to get the best of the best together to hopefully figure out a way to ease the worries of the populous.”

“Excuse me for being bold, my lord,” Bane says. “But do you think that there’s nothing to worry about?”

Sterling is quiet for a moment, long enough for Bane to worry that about the safety of his neck. Then the young man shakes his head. “I believe deep down that there is some kind of threat inflicting our fair land. Whether it is a physical antagonist or the fears of the people conflated into paranoia—I cannot say.”

Bane nods. “Of course. How many are already in the project?”

“The entire Neverwinter militia, and various captains and lieutenants from various other forces. The efficiency you’ve shown in Goldcliff is admirable, and I would be honored to have you alongside my team. And you, Angus. The Neverwinter militia credits half of their solved cases to your skills. I cannot begin to think of anyone more fit for the job.”

Bane picks at his bushy mustache, puzzling over the offer. He needs to keep an eye on his own team and help them in gathering the Grand Relics—more so now than ever with the Red Robes appearing out of nowhere to reclaim their weapons. But if someone on Sterling’s team decides to act on the rumors of the relics being involved with the so-called apocalypse, then it’ll only be a matter of time before his team is found out, himself included.

Even worse— someone on Sterling’s force actually getting a hand on one of the relics. It’s been years, but Bane can clearly remember how swaths of green foliage had stretched over Goldcliff—vines strangling throats as wretched cries pierce through the air. His team being ripped apart by greenery from the inside out. The silverpoint poison that tracks black webbed veins through his second-in-command’s skin. He had been lucky that day Killian and Johann were there to get the Gaia Sash under control from the business man possessed from it—that Killian had the brawn to fight back any attack, and Johann the genius to craft a song that can fend off the listeners from the poison of the thrall. Luck, Bane finds, is always in short supply.

“It would be my honor to join the ranks,” Bane says. From the inside, he can keep an eye on things, make sure that his team stays safe. With clever maneuvering, he might even be able to use Sterling’s resources to get information he can funnel back to Killian and Avi. He’ll be tried for treason if he’s ever found out, but it’s a risk he’ll have to take.

Sterling grins. They join hands in a hearty shake full of promises and pats on the back. When they finish, and Bane leans back in his seat again, a small voice clears his throat.

“I appreciate the offer, Lord Sterling sir,” Angus says. “But I already have too many cases on my plate that I need to work on right away.”

Sterling startles, eyes widening as if he never considered the possibility that he might be refused. “I’m sorry. Did you say no?”

“Captain is really good at his job,” Angus continues, though Ban can’t tell if he’s pretending to not notice how the atmosphere in the room has shifted. “He really would be the best person for it.”

Sterling reorients himself with one deep breath. “Excuse me for saying this, but you are the world’s greatest detective. Your insight would be vital. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems as though you’re currently conducting a similar investigation to the one I want to do.”

“I’m not sure I’m at liberty to talk about the details of any of my investigations yet,” Angus replies. “I really am sorry, sir, but Bane is the best man for the job.” He looks at Bane with a grin that’s just a bit too toothy. “You have my complete confidence.”

Bane’s not sure how, but there’s no doubt in his mind now that Angus McDonald knows exactly what he does in his spare time.

* * *

The early autumn rain lets up by the time Magnus and Stevie enter the craftsmen district of Neverwinter. What were thick pellets of water that battered the large black umbrella in Magnus’s hand is now nothing more than a fine mist that drapes cold moisture through the air. He’s bundled up in a thick leather coat, his scarf pulled close to his face. His gloved hand holds a bag filled with new clothes for Stevie. With her growth spurt over the summer, none of her old clothes fit her right, though with the amount of time Magnus had to spend urging her to try on different pairs of slacks, he would think he had been forcing her give up a favorite blanket.

He looks down at her, bundled in a green coat they purposefully bought a few sizes too big a years ago so that she could grow into it. She’s more comfortable in the rain than he is; she stands half way out of the umbrella’s span, her curls a wet and frizzy bush. He watches her eyes dart over every detail of the shops lining both sides of the streets, brightening for the first time today as the smell of a forge’s smoke conquers the fresh air. The hand closest to him holds another bag of clothes.

Magnus wishes Julia didn’t have her own errand to run so that she can help him with this—whatever _this_ is. Stevie’s too young for these shifts in moods to be puberty, but whenever they ask if she wants to talk about what’s going on, she doesn’t say anything. Everyone in the family is doing their best to engage with her. Merle’s got Stevie doing little bits of chores for him, and Davenport sometimes takes her onto the helm to learn bits and pieces on how the _Starblaster_ works. Lucretia takes out her paint sets and gets her to paint, and Barry always has Merle send Stevie little messages so that she doesn’t worry about him. Yet, all that on top of Magnus and Julia’s usual parenting doesn’t seem to be enough. She just gets more and more withdrawn, and Magnus only gets more and more frustrated.

There’s a small square in the middle of the craftsmen’s district where a large tent had been set up to fend from the rain. Various children and some adults gather under it, attentions drawn to a bard with a fiddle singing a story as two puppeteers act out the events on a small box of a stage. Stevie stares at it, only looking away when Magnus nudges her shoulder. “In here, bear cub.”

They drag the soles of their boots over the doormat before stepping inside the shop. The walls are adorned with weapons of every kind, some practical and mean, other delicate and decorative. A few people mill around the store, some taking a sword or glaive off its hook to try a few practice swings.

Magnus clasps a hand on Stevie’s shoulder, bending down so that he can look her in the eye. Wonder fills her eyes and she smiles so largely that he can see every single one of her teeth—even the one in the back that’s slow to grow in since she lost it last year. “I know your mom and I promised that we were going to make you your first sword,” he says. “But things have been a little hectic lately, and we can’t make you one right now.”

He watches the excitement leave her eyes. That hurts. He almost wants to see her cry or lash out—give him some kind of emotion to work with—but she just presses her lips together and nods.

He grimaces and tries to continue with this speech he thought of while shaving this morning. “I know you’re upset, but your mom and I promise that the moment we’re back in Raven’s Roost, we’re going to make you one that's even better. But that just means that we’re going to get to buy you one. No wait! Isn’t that cool?”

Stevie nods.

He nods back. Okay, that’s good. He can deal with that.

Magnus returns to his full height, reaching down to take her hand when he remembers the bag she’s holding. Instead, he taps her shoulder and points at the set of smaller swords made for the smaller races. “Let’s start over here.”

He pulls a few off their hooks, holding them out while they’re in their sheaths so that he can compare their size to Stevie’s height. She’s half a foot from being five feet tall, which makes her taller than most dwarves. Finding a good fit is going to be tricky. “So we’re going to have a few conditions about having this,” he says as he pulls out a few more swords. “Like you’re only going to get this while either me, your mom, or someone else in the family is there to supervise. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stevie says.

He holds out a sword that might be a tad too short for her, but as he hefts it in his hands, he’s starting to think that it might also be too heavy. When he first joined the military program at the Institute, his first sword was only a few pounds heavier than this one. But he had also been sixteen and working on a farm his whole life. When he thinks about it like that, most of the swords here might not work at all.

“We’re going to have to ask for some help,” he says. He motions for Stevie to follow, and he hears her steps behind him as he goes right up to the counter on the other end of the shop.

The tiefling behind the counter perks up to attention, smiling her best smile when she asks what he needs. He explains the problem, which makes her switch her face to her best customer service frown. “All of my swords here are master crafts. They’re perfectly balanced so that the wielder doesn’t feel the weight.”

“Yes, I get that. My wife’s runs a forge. But, uh, we’re talking about a sword a ten year can use.”

She thinks about it for a moment. “I have a few swords my apprentices made for practice,” she says. “They aren’t going to be perfect, but there might be one or two that a child can comfortably hold.” The tiefling leans over the counter, scanning the floor. “Is the before mentioned child here to test a few of them out?”

Magnus already knows before he turns exactly what he’s going to see: Stevie, not there.

“Fuck.” From the moment she started walking, Stevie’s been prone to running off to whatever grabs her attention first. The part of him that knows his daughter doesn’t feel worry when he looks around the shop and doesn’t find her anywhere along the full walls of weapons. The Magnus that has been agonizing over every little move she makes is terrified. “I’ll, um, go grab her. Be right back!”

And with that, he rushes out.

He doesn’t bother opening his umbrella when he steps into the mist. His foot slams into a puddle, sending a splash of dirty water over his slacks as he scans through the crowd up and down the street for any sign of his daughter. Every failed check makes his heart hammer louder and louder. He swears he’s not breathing.

Then he sees her.

She sits at the edge of the group of children gathered around the bard, her shopping bag on her lap as she listens to the song.

Magnus marches over, trying to figure out with each step what the fuck he’s going to say to her. She seems to sense him the moment he gets close, and she turns to look up at him with a frown he does not know how to decipher. “Hi Pops,” she says.

He looks down at her, letting his face tell her how mad he is. “Stevie Lup Q Burnsides—what do you think you’re doing?”

Someone hushes him, which is insane since they’re in a busy square and all the other kids watching the show are talking through it. Stevie stares up at him like she’s waiting for him to snap and start yelling. His own mother’s favorite type of parenting was loud yelling, and he has always kept a promise to himself to never raise his voice at his own daughter. He knows he’s not going to start now, and he clings to that knowledge for dear life.

He sits, crossing his legs and he sets his own bag on his lap. Mirroring her. “I’m not mad at you, Stevie,” he says softly. He doesn’t care about the people who could hush him for making noise, but he doesn’t want her to ever feel afraid of him. “I just want to know why you ran off.”

She motions to the bard before holding her bag closer to her chest. “I just wanted to listen.”

He looks up at the show in time to see a puppet of a human play a lyre in front of another puppet adorned in back. He listens to one line of the bard’s song and knows that it’s supposed to be a representation of the Raven Queen. “Okay, I understand, but you still can’t run off anywhere without asking me first. Understand?”

“Okay,” she replies.

Silence hangs between them for a second.

“I know you’re upset about the sword not being one your mom made—”

Stevie shakes her head. “I don’t care about that.”

“Do you even want to learn how to wield one then?” he asks quickly. This is the most he’s gotten out of her in weeks, and he needs to get more from her. “If you don’t want to learn it, you can just say so. We’ll do something else—”

“I want to swordfight!” Stevie says.

He holds up his hands, feeling as though he’s crossed the line. “Okay, okay. That’s not going to change. But…” He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to his side. She snuggles into his chest, and the swell of love warms him better than any coat. “Sweetie, your mom and I can tell that something’s bothering you. We just want to help you.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Are you sure? You know that you can tell me anything, right? Me and your mom both.”

She pauses for a moment. “I’m okay.”

He doesn’t believe it, but he’s not going to press. He just leans in and kisses her scalp. “I love you.”

She mutters back, “I love you too.”

He lets that end the tough conversation. He feels like it’s enough, and he can only hope that his gut is right about that one. It feels like too much—having to be a good parent on top of being a good hero for the world. A part of him that is bigger than he wants to admit wants to go back to his own shop in Raven’s Roost where he can carve his wood and watch over his two favorite girls. Where the days are quiet, but in the good way that hums throughout the soul and leaves one feeling older than they’re used to, and happier than they ever thought possible. Where things were mundane.

They can buy the sword in a little bit, after the performance. “Bear cub,” he whispers, shaking her shoulder so that she notices him. “What’s this one about?”

He feels her shrug. “Just _the Bard and the Raven Queen_.”

He leans in, muttering so that his scruff will tickle her face, “Uh, I’m an alien. I don’t know what that is.”

She giggles, pushing him away, but she explains.

Once upon a time, the greatest bard in the world was in love with a beautiful elf. But after some time, the bard fell ill. While this left him too frail to make music and spread stories, he was not sad. He had his elf to love, and that was all he needed. But one day, his elf did not come home. After waiting for days, he learned that the elf had stumbled into a battle and had died.

The bard decided that he could not live without his elf, so he took his lyre and wandered into the realm of the Raven Queen. He made it through all three of the monsters guarding her court by playing beautiful music that made them incapable of wanting to hurt him. When he came upon the Raven Queen herself, he gave her an offer—if he could play her a song that could make her cry, she would have to return his lover to the realm of the living.

The goddess, however, refused. She alone guarded the balance between life and death, and she could not make a promise she could not keep. However, since the bard’s courage impressed her, she made a different offer. For each of the races in the land, he would have to play her a song. Every tear that she cried would be another hundred years onto their lives. If the song ended and she did not cry, she would slash their lives in half. If he so chose, he could prevent others from feeling the same loss he had. The bard, confident in his music, agreed.

For the orcs, the bard played a warrior’s ballad with sharp notes that inspire courage. For it, the Raven Queen cried two tears. And so, the orcs live to be two hundred years old.

For the dwarves, the bard played the most beautiful song filled with notes of strength and creativity. For it, the Raven Queen cried five tears. And so, the dwarves live to be a five hundred years old.

And so, with every race, the bard played a different song. Each melody was more gorgeous than the first, making her cry more and more. When it came to the elves, the bard thought of his lover and played the most beautiful song, one filled with notes of loss and beauty. For it, the Raven Queen cried ten tears. And so, the elves live to be a thousand years old.

Finally, the bard had to play one last song for his own race—the humans. But when he started to play, he thought about the pain of losing his elf and fell to his knees in shame. “I cannot play for you,” he said. “I would rather take less time among the living if it meant that I did not have to see those that I love die.”

“Since you play no music, I cannot cry,” The Raven Queen replied. “As we agreed, all humans will live half their lives. They will be the first of the races to die, but they will remember you by being the quickest to be skilled. It is what you’ve chosen, and so it shall be.”

According to the bards who still to this day play the songs that so moved the Raven Queen to tears, this is why the humans are the shortest living of all the races in the land.

From what Magnus can tell, the show is only half way through each of the songs—the puppeteers casting small cantrips to make bits of glittering light circle through the air to represent the goddess’s tears. He only gets to watch a small portion of it when he feels Stevie poke his side. “Can we go buy my sword, Pops?” she asks.

He smiles, and rises to his feet. “Sure, bear cub.”

* * *

 

Julia steps into the tavern, placing her umbrella in the little pot the door, and peels off her rain soaked cloak. It’s busier now than it normally is, with so many people trying to avoid the chill of the rain outside. The light drizzle that accompanied her walk to the center of Neverwinter is starting to pick up, surely about to turn into torrent of downpour from the sky.

The inside is lit by gold lights, framing the various tables filled with people of every race and class. The biggest crowd is around one section of the bar, all whispering among themselves as they listen to what sounds like a charming man tell a story that is probably fake. Julia writes it off as another backless rumor of some dragon hiding treasure in the mountains before finding who she’s looking for.

In the opposite corner of the tavern, sits an orc at his own table. He reads a sensible pair of glasses as his eyes pass over the words of a novel. Julia smiles, a spring to her step as she weaves through the tables and approaches him. “You’re a hard man to find, Brad Bradson.”

Brad looks up from his book, immediately smiling as he rises from his chair. “Miss Julia.” He leans down and kisses both of her cheeks, pulling back to give her a kind smile. “It’s good to see you. I hope you didn’t have too hard of a time finding this place. It’s close to my work, but definitely a trek to get to.”

“You’re fine, Bradson. It was a cinch.” She takes the seat across from him, smiling at the guy who suffered through a couple years of school with her. “Where are you working now, anyway?”

“Believe it or not, but the reception desk at the Council of Lords.”

“Really? You? A receptionist?”

He thinks it over, brows jumping up and down as if he can see each thought in the air. “It has more upward mobility than being HR in Goldcliff.”

“Is Brian here?” Julia asks.

With that, the smile from Brad’s face falls. “Well, actually, he’s still doing adventuring work. He has a steady gig in Goldcliff, and hopefully he’s going to be able to step away from work long enough to come up here and seal the deal.”

She reaches a hand across the table, placing it onto of his. Even working a desk job, callouses mark the pads of his fingers. “But?”

“I got a letter from his employer saying that he was injured on a job, and I haven’t heard from him since. Not a letter or anything.”

Julia tries to smile, but it’s weighted by sadness. “I’m sorry, Brad.”

“No, it’s fine—”

“I’ve never met Brian, but if your letters are anything to go by, I’m sure there’s a good reason for it.”

He nods, brightening if only a little. “I appreciate you saying that.”

She pulls her hand back, leaning into her seat. “Besides, you always said you were going to get a better husband than me, Mister-I-Love-You-Julia-But-Marrying-Magnus-Is-the-Worst-Thing-You-Can-Ever-Do Bradson.”

He gasps. “I did _not_ —”

“You said right before playing the song for our first dance. I remember because I was there. And I was there because it was my wedding, _Bradson_.”

He buries his face in his hands, laughing so hard that his face flushes a darker shade of green. When he recovers, he hesitates as he tries to figure out if she’s gotten it out of her system, before speaking up. “Okay, so what’s this device you need me to look over?”

Julia reaches into her bag, pulling out the pair of headphones her husband had stolen months prior. “None of us really understand how bardic magic works,” she explains, watching him turn it over in his hands. “But somehow, the song that’s playing in those cushions make it so that the wearer aren’t affected by magical items’ thralls.”

He frowns. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.” With a little fumble, he manages to pull it over his head with the cushions over his ears. He perks up, concentrating on the song inside. “Oh, wow. That’s one hell of a spell.”

“Can you tell how it works?” she asks.

“I mean, I definitely can. It’s like ten different types of magic layered on top of each other—like I can tell there’s one here to banish unwanted spirits and another to actually place a temporary _charm person_ on the listener, but there’s specific command built into it—and the fact that it’s playing on a loop away from the original player is just insane.” He stares at her, face switching between horror and awe. “Whoever composed this song has to be the greatest bard to have ever lived.”

“Okay...” She bites her lip, trying to remember all of the questions Barry wants her to ask. “Is, uh. Would it be too much trouble if you could write down how the song works? Like, just get all of its components on some paper and just note what each ones does and how?”

Brad grimaces, but he’s already reaching into his bag for a notebook. “It’ll take a while. Let me just purchase a drink—”

“Don't bother, Bradson. Drinks are on me.”

Julie goes to the bar, frowning when she realizes that even more people are gathered around the guy spouting bullshit. She flags down the bartender with a polite hand, orders Brad’s ale and a beer for herself. The busty woman behind the counter gives a quick “right away, sweetie” and turns before Julia can hand over her coins. It’s when the two drinks slide over to her and she gets a chance to ask for the price that the bartender says, “No need. All rounds have been paid for.”

“By who?” Julia asks.

And the bartender jerks a thumb at the commotion. “Big shot right over there. Says he just got the gold of a lifetime and now’s trying to waste it in a single day.”

“Huh,” Julia says, taking the drinks in hand. It’s not every day that the guy spewing crap actually has something to back it up with. “Okay.”

She takes the two drinks back to Brad, sitting down long enough to get through half of her own when her curiosity finally gets the better of her. She marches over to the commotion. Now that she’s looking, she can see that the man in question is a beautiful high elf with sun kissed skin. His hair is a bright blue pulled back into a stub of a ponytail, but that’s not even his most remarkable feature. A large eyepatch crosses over half of his face, with the design of some kind of slender animal curled around a grand stone.

Julia’s sure that she’s never seen this man before in her life, but something between the slick words coming from his mouth and the lazy way he leans into the bar’s counter seems familiar. Something bad stirs within her as she pushes her way to the front of the crowd.

He places his cup of wine to the side, freeing up a ringed hand to gesture to his eyepatch. “Like this,” he tells the crowd. “I had to give up this bad boy, but after that I was rewarded with more riches than I could have ever possibly imagined.”

“You have to give up something?” a dragon born woman asks, her claws drumming out a beat on the blue scales of her slender arm.

The elf nods. “Sure. Their whole game is that you can’t get anything without sacrificing something first. It’s stupidly fair.”

“Excuse me.” Julia shoves past the last brute, finding herself right in front of the elf’s stool. He smirks. She feels ever set of eyes land on her as she puts on her own determined face. “What are we talking about?”

“Only the greatest place in Faerun!” The elf holds out his arms in grandeur. “Whatever you desire, you can get.”

“I’m sorry,” Julia says, a hand falling onto the sword at her hip. “I have a brain that can think over something for more than two seconds, and that sounds like baloney.”

A chorus of amazed gasps sounds behind her, and she can hear a few people betting on whether or not she’s going to draw the sword on her side. The elf looks unperturbed, only setting a hand under his chin as he leans forward. His eyes glitter in the lamplight as he gets so close that she can see the pores on his skin. “Well? What do you desire the most then? Gold? Glory?”

Julia raises her chin upwards as he gets ever closer. Her hand tightens around her sword’s hilt. “Nothing some backwater den of what’s probably organ traffickers can give me.”

The elf suddenly draws back, making a delighted noise. “I know what you want.” He picks up his wine glass, and suddenly Julia knows where she’s seen this man before. It was just last week, framed in a portrait. It was a few months ago, in a town in the middle of nowhere, where his statue raised a chalice into the air.

The elf holds up his wine glass. “You’re looking for the Grand Relics,” he says, earning an even louder stir from the crowd.

Julia takes a step forward, mouth slack. “…Taako?”

He dazzles under the attention. “The one and only. Nice to see that my reputation precedes me.”

All she can do is stare. Magnus has been worrying about him for so long. Lucretia has killed herself searching Faerun for him, and yet Julia’s managed to stumble into him in a tavern in the heart of Neverwinter.

Taako springs from the stool—long legs nearly hitting her as he steps right into her space. She takes a large step back, almost drawing her sword in the process.

He raises his hands into the air. “Hey! No need to be jumpy. I guess I nailed you down pretty well there.”

“Uh…” Opening her mouth, Julia’s amazed to realize that she doesn’t have the words for what’s going on. This is Taako. It’s the same face in the portraits Lucretia painted. This is a part of her family.

She shoves the words out of her mouth. “You need to come with me. Right now.”

“No need to be in a hurry.” Taako’s at her side, slinking an arm around her shoulder. “Take a rest. I’ll buy you a drink and—”

Julia stops dead in her tracks, refusing to let him guide her around. “No. Listen to me—I’m Julia. I’m Magnus’s wife.”

He pauses, making a peculiar face. “Magnus,” he says. “Oh, I remember him. He got married?” He starts pushing her around again. “Just take a seat and—”

“No!” Finally, she shoves him away. A look of pure shock masks his features as she takes on a harder stance before smoothing over with a distant coolness. She grits her teeth, a sick feeling well in her gut. “Listen. Taako. I know you’re just trying to be nice, but everyone’s been looking everywhere for you. Magnus, Lucretia, Merle, Davenport—we’ve been worried sick. I need you to trust me and just come back to the ship with me.”

His jaw sets as his eyes narrow into a sharp glare. “I haven’t spoken to any of those dicks in years.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his multicolored coat. “And, now that something good has finally happened to me, they suddenly want to reconnect?”

Julia watches where his hand goes, and immediately knows what’s about to happen. Her hand flies back onto her sword. “Taako, wait—"

He pulls out what looks like a golden five-armed star with jewels and blades on each end. Julia draws her sword—the metal screeching on its scabbard—when a beam of dark magic shoots from the center of the glaive.

Pain bursts around her chest. She doesn’t realize she’s flying until her back strikes the wall on the opposite side of the tavern. She cries out, her ribs and chest overflowing with an agony that she can’t explain. She can only open her eyes a tiny bit, and all she can see is how the wood around her is splintered and broken as the people around her flee from the fight. She sees her sword glint a few feet from her, but she can’t even twitch a finger without summoning a shock of pain.

A pair of shoes enter her vision—one of the metal tips stepping onto her polished blade. Taako squats so that he can see her face. He smiles wickedly as his long fingers fish into his pocket before presenting an envelope with a flourish. “For you, m’dear.” He lifts her hand off the ground, ignoring her scream of agony as he slides the glittering paper beneath.

He lets it drop again, presses a single finger to his lips, before rising to his full height again. All Julia can do is watch as he turns to all the people watching. “The answer to all your problems can be found in one place—whether it be riches or glory or even power.” He throws his arms out. “But you heard the news. The world is going to end, and you’re going to need a Grand Relic to make it through. Well, you can find one of them there. That’s right. The Animus Bell is in Wonderland. Try your luck and see if you can win it!”

With that, he disappears. Julia’s not sure. She blacks out before she can see him leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here! We did it everyone! We're finally at the point of the story you all have been bugging me about since chapter uno. This definitely could be a tad more polished, but I'm going on a trip later this week and I didn't want to put off posting the new installment any longer. Hopefully it's not too bad.
> 
>  
> 
> If you want to see some more notes on this chapter, including the name of Angus's other mom, be sure to check out the extended chapter notes and next chapter preview here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/174159810046/northern-migration-chapter-13-notes-next
> 
>  
> 
> And, last but certainly not least, thank you so much to everyone who has been sticking around up until this point. Even if you've just started reading this today, thank you from the bottom of my heart for putting up with my long breaks between chapters and horrible pacing. It really means a whole lot to me. Thank you so very, very much! I can only hope I can make all of this continue to be worth some of your time. XOXOXOXOXXO


	14. In Which Barry Talks About His Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We flashback to how Ren and Taako first met. Julia and co get tangled with the militia. Everyone talks about the bell. Honestly, this chapter is a lot of talking.

Once there was a girl named Ren. She was bright and strong, and they said that she had an incredible future before her. She loved her parents, but not enough to live out her thousand year life span in the Underdark. At the first opportunity, she packed up her stuff and moved to a sunny, nothing town in the middle of the Woven Gulch. Her parents were disappointed, sending her letters upon letters begging her to do something with her life that would make her evocation specialty worthwhile, but Ren threw them out as soon as she read them. In her greatest act of defiance, she opened a saloon.

It was quaint, but rowdy. Her days were simple but steady. The years bled into each other until it was a consistent hum of memories. Ren’s life was remarkable by how unremarkable it was. She didn’t need to be an idol in some bard’s farfetched song for her life to be complete. All she wanted was to wake up and know she was doing alright.

Then a stranger came to town.

“I’m looking for a high elf,” he said, leaning into the counter of her bar. His skirt hiked up his crossed legs, revealing slender calves marked by a few hard fought battles. His hair was a neon pink that was almost too intense to look at, but behind his slick smirk she could tell what he was asking mattered. “Same face, dark hair. Tattoos all the way down her arms. First name Lup.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re the first stranger these parts have seen in a long time,” she told him. His face didn’t fall, but his ears pressed downwards with unspoken sorrow. She tried a grin and lifted a bottle from a shelf. “Hey now. No need to be glum. I’ll give you a drink—one on the house.”

The next time they met, she thought it was the first time. She didn’t remember the last time. Refuge was sick. Time was ill. The stranger didn’t ask about his sister again, but he asked about the town and the people living there. “I gotta get out of here,” he said.

“Well, how’d you get in?” Ren asked.

“Spells. Launched myself at it and freaking forced my way through a weak point.” He shrugged. “Listen—Taako doesn’t do much charity work, but getting you guys out of this straight-to-video sequel of _Groundhog Day_ is going to be easy. I’ll figure it out and natch. You can move on with your life.”

Half of what he said made no sense, so she chose to respond to the part that did. “That barrier’s up to protect us.”

He leaned in. “Ask yourself—from _what?_ ”

She didn’t have the answer. He left, and the town was destroyed before she could find one.

A few first meetings later, Taako changed his script. “So,” he started, placing a hand on the table, “wanna take a day off from working the same old shitty saloon and spend a day with old Taako here?”

“Who the hell you?” Ren said. She pulled her rod out from under the counter, and that seemed to be enough to send him scurrying.

It took a few more deaths for Taako to learn how to introduce himself as a confused traveler in need of some guidance around town. He learned that if he acted idiot enough, she would take pity and try to personally guide him to where he needed to go. Then the sheer insanity of all the things he was trying to do would make her so damn curious that she just had to help. He might squeeze in a few comments about being the hero and doing the right thing, and he’d have her wrapped around his fingers. She was a good woman, and she wanted to do alright. And they did this again and again.

Once, while taking him through the town, she noticed his eyes drifting to the statue of the Protector. “What?” she said.

He pulled out his glaive—the krebstar—and twirled it in his hands. “So. What did that dumbass there do that’s so special?”

She told him, and he scoffed. “Yeah, well. Big whoop. Look what good some barrier did for this place.”

A few deaths later, they sat in identical chairs in old lady Paloma’s cabin as she gave them a Big Prophecy. With the shattering of a crystal, the room changed to present two futures: one of a world covered in tar, the other gray and lifeless. Paloma’s eyes rolled back until only the veins were visible, her soft voice morphing into the low rumble of the gods. “In the future, you will be offered a terrible choice between two options that will determine the fate of reality itself. In this moment of crisis, remember: there is always a third option."

The crystals above chimed and glinted with raw energy. Taako met Ren’s eyes. His brows were furrowed, and he seemed to understand what exactly the two images meant.

When the lights returned to normal, Paloma swooned. Taako spun his glaive, casting a quick _mage hand_ to catch the old woman before she collapsed completely. She regained her strength as soon as it left her, chuckling as she waved away any worry. Taako pressed his lips and nodded, adverting his eyes as he pushed the basket of scones into her direction. “Ominous as fuck, old lady,” he said. “You gotta, like, reconsider your brand. Embrace this death metal thing you got going.”

Another cycle.

Taako didn’t introduce himself. Instead, they met when Ren went to the bank to drop off the midday earnings. His eyes widened with horror when he saw her—his arm extended as magic spouts from the center of his glaive, keeping the patrons of the bank frozen in fear. Ren was a good woman and only wanted to do what was right. She didn’t know where Roswell was, but she had her rod.

They fought.

At first, she thought she was going to win. The spells this strange elf launched were far from dangerous, and she could see how he hesitated. When a particular spell scorched through the shoulder of his shirt, burning his skin until smoke wafted through the air, he cried out in pain.

His eyes narrowed.

Ren died early that cycle.

When they met again, it was with him walking meekly into the bar. She looked up, saw a strange wizard with a lance strapped to his back, and gave her brightest smile. “Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone new around here,” she said. “What’s a stranger like you doing in these parts?”

He stared at the ground as he slid into his seat. “Are you—fuck.” He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes. “I can’t fucking pretend this time—Ren, I’m sorry. I knew you weren’t going to stay like that, but I should have, like, cast some _hold person_ or some shit. That didn’t need to happen—I didn’t need to do that.”

Ren stared at him. “Uh, have we met?”

His ears jumped to high alert. “Fuck. Right.” He reached into his bag of holding, pulling out a pair of knitting needles. They simmered with every color of the rainbow, glistening under the lamp light as he handed them to her. “Throw this on, homie. Express delivery from a goddess and shit.”

She looked between his face, where his eyes studied the tips of his boots, before taking the slender pieces from his hands. The second she twisted up her silvery hair and pushed the needles into the bun, it all came back to her. The hundreds of times she repeated the same day over and over again, living out the same hour until the bank she had to drop her midday earnings at engulfed in an inferno.

Meeting Taako the first time, then again. Then again afterwards. The same conversations repeating themselves, him growing more tired as he gave the same cursory information about himself over and over again. Trying the solve the puzzle in the mines. Buying prophecies from Paloma. The ground opening up beneath her before the world turned into blackness. Starting it all over again behind the counter of her bar, cleaning a glass as she watched ruffians cause a commotion in the corner.

She gasped, bracing a hand on the counter as she remembered dying by Taako’s hand. The way his face broke with pain as he launched a fatal spell. The regret in his eyes even though he had to know she was going to be fine once their hour was up.

Ren held a hand up to her head, feeling the divine power wash over her when her fingers brush over the edges of the needles. “Holy shit,” she said. His eyes lingered everywhere but her, his boots shuffling on the ground as he waited for her anger. Everything about him was familiar, like the figment of a long held memory in a strange dream. She took a deep breath. “Fuck—you went easy on me, didn’t you?”

Taako stared at her. When she cracked a grin, the tension left his shoulders as he laughed. “Hey. You weren’t down for helping rob the bank the first time. Don’t blame me for skipping out on trying to figure out how to win that argument.”

She smiled. “Fair.” She gestures between the lance and her new hair pieces. “Where’d you get all this?”

“Istus. Long story and all that jazz. I’ll tell it on the road, buttercup. We got a sheriff to find.”

Istus’s knitting needles separated her from the restrictions of the time loop, placing her in the same consistent state of memory as Taako. When their hour ran out and the day reset, Ren blinked back to consciousness knowing exactly what needed to be done. She abandoned her saloon immediately, running out to catch Taako as he quelled Roswell. Finally in complete tandem, it took them considerably less time to venture into the mines and find Isaak.

Even without the cycle, it’s been a long time since Ren saw Isaak proper. But here he was in the mine shafts, scruffy and heavy eyed as he guarded little June. Her little hands held a wood chalice. “June’s alive,” Ren said, finding the sight of a little pigtail girl impossible to believe.

Taako stared at the wood chalice. “Aw, shit. Motherfucker—” He pointed a sharp finger at Isaak. “You’re still under its thrall, aren’t you?”

“Thrall?” Ren asked.

Taako yanked her far behind him. “No, you stay back. That shit right there’s gonna fuck you up.”

“And not you?”

“Hello? I’m _Taako_.”

Isaak stared at him for a long moment. “You know about this thing? Where it came from…” He gasped. “Who exactly are you? I’ve been stuck here, waiting through all these cycles, and I’ve seen ya pillage and steal—manipulate that poor girl to going along with your schemes. And you know what that stupid cup is? You’re not harmed by it?”

“Uh. Actually, fuck this.” Taako fired a spell at Isaak, sending the sheriff flying backwards into the cave. He turned to June and the bubble surrounding her, pulling the chance lance from his back. “Ren, stay all the fuck ways back from this thing. Taako’s got this.”

He threw the chance lance.

The chalice took on the form of June worn and elderly, her gnarled knuckles wrapped around the wooden stem. In this world of white, Ren knew for sure that she wanted nothing more than to get her hands on that cup. She could redo her whole life with it. Try to go on a few adventures, then rewind it all if she failed. The monotony of running a saloon in the middle of nowhere could be broken.

But like before, Taako held her back. “Hey, hey. Your beef is with me, lady,” he said, casting _hold person_. Relief undercut her annoyance—she wanted it so badly, but a part of her knew she shouldn’t want it. “You got a problem, you bring it to me.”

 _I don’t know who made me,_ the chalice replied, _but I want to be—_

“It’s just some all brawn and no brains doofus with a magical pet fish,” Taako said.

The chalice balked. _What?_

“I’m saying I know who made you. Like, seriously. What else do I have to do get you to shut the fuck up?”

The mirage of June stared at him for a long moment. _I have one goal—and that’s to be useful. There has to be some regret in your life I can fix. If there isn’t then I’ll go with you willingly._

“Cool.” He spun the krebstar, and this time sending a sleeping spell onto Ren. Drows should be immune to anything that causes sleep, but within seconds she found herself blinking with drowsiness. Before she fell asleep, she saw Taako step forward. “Sounds like a fair agreement to me...”

When she woke up again, they were back in the mines. “Up, up.” Taako has his hands on her arm, yanking her upright as the walls around them shook and cracked. She groaned, feeling a pain in her head as the effects of so many spells placed on her at one time began to wear off. “C’mon—Ren, I am not above leaving you behind. Get up!”

She was alert then. “Oh gods.” She sprung to her feet, unsure if the sway beneath her soles is from her own vertigo or the way the world was starting to crumble. “Taako—did you do it? Is it over?”

“Yeah, sure. We’ll talk about it later. Grab the kid and run. The town’s going to go down and we gotta scram.”

It was a mad race through down the mining shaft, trying to fend off whatever attack the purple worm threw at them as they tried to race it away from the town. Ren hitched up her skirt, directing her rod this way and that as she casted every evocation spell that came to her head. And, when they saw the barrier, Taako threw the chance lance.

For a long time, Refuge was sick. A small segment of time repeated over and over again, the gears grinding together until the metal turned to dust. Time was sick. And when the minute hand finally ticked past noon, time started to recover.

A new barrier went up around town. The brothers at the temple of Istus said that it was the goddess’s way of fixing their place in the timeline. Letting them catch up on all the time they missed. It would be a few years until they were free to resume life with the rest of the world.

On the other side of the barrier stood Taako. Ren made sure to walk by his spot at the edge of town every day, watching as he moved little by little. He held the chalice in one hand, but she could tell that it didn’t drive him to insanity the same way it drove her and Isaak. To him, it was just a cup. It was another reason why he was special.

Ren had years to think about Taako, to take what little hints he gave about himself during their adventure and piece them into a story. He never became clearer. But she would stand for a while every day and press her hand to the barrier, watching over several months as Taako slowly raised his hand and pressed his palm to hers. Then he drew back and flipped her off, clear as day.

She was there when children taped letters of thank you onto the barrier wall for Taako to read.

She was there when a statue made in their honor was constructed.

After many years she could not count, she was there when the barrier went down. She was the first one to step outside of Refuge’s limits. She took three large steps and threw her arms around Taako, laughing as she felt him squirm.

The party was incredible. A buffet large enough to gorge an entire town was on full display, and a few men with instruments banded together to create a jaunty tune. Ren danced with whoever asked her, then she dragged Taako into a spin. He stumbled and grimaced before pushing her hands away and moving his body fluidly in a partner-less salsa. He was the life of the party, enthralling people with stories that sounded fake about his adventures across Faerun. He was Taako the Great and Powerful Wizard, and he had done more with one drip of his life than most did with a century.

More than what Ren did in her little backwater saloon.

Taako found her at a table, fitting his spindly body into a chair as he picked up a random glass to drink from. “So, uh—how do I say this? The food here sucks.”

Ren snorted, bringing her own cup closer if only to waft the alcohol’s perfume under her nose. “You’re a conesuire or something?”

He preened. “I consider myself a high end chef, if you catch what I’m throwing.”

“Oh, I’m catching.” Her shoulders dropped. “You know, I had a bet with June. I said you were a tailor with your fancy threads but she said that you were a scientist.” His face contorts, but she couldn’t tell what meant. “You’ve heard her. She’s got bits and pieces of memories from being possessed, so I don’t know if that gave her an advantage or—”

“Yeah, uh—” He groaned. “Yeah, so I got my brain dissected by that stupid thrall. It probably saw something about Lup and—you know, I’m not a smart guy, but I’m not stupid. I could be a scientist, but that’s just not my MO. Taako prefers that art shit. Liberal arts. Culinary and… philosophy.”

“Had to really think that last one through,” she said.

“I think, therefore I am. Taako original. Trademark.”

Ren leaned back, ignoring him as he took an apple from a bowl and transmuted it into a cupcake. It was complex magic, more than what any transmutation wizard could do yet he did it was a careless wave of the wand. “So, your whole story is that you’re looking for your missing sister.”

“I mean…” He pressed his lips. “You know what? Yeah, actually. That’s my story. I got a twin sister and she’s missing and I’m going to find her.”

“I’ve been thinking about this long and hard,” Ren said. “And just stop me if you don’t like it—”

“Stop right now,” Taako said.

“Okay, dick. Keep jerking off and see where that hair grows.” He cracked up, slamming his hand on the table as he curled into his stomach. She smiled, taking another sip for courage. “Okay, but seriously. I’ve been thinking. I want to get that chalice somewhere where this will never happen again. And I can’t be around that thing without going loco.” She smiled. “And, maybe I’m wrong, but I bet you wouldn’t mind having a little help in finding Lup.”

“Yeah, about that…” He chewed into his cupcake, wincing as he parsed his words. “I’m like a lone wolf kind of dude—walking that lonely road all by myself. I don’t really do charity cases.”

“ _Hm,_ alright.” She sipped her drink. “We’re leaving at dawn, right?”

Taako raised his finger, mouth opening as if he was going to make an objection. But no sound came out, and all he was left to do was watch her smile and twirl a strand of silver hair. Istus’s knitting needles glittered under the firelight. He groaned, taking an angry bite of cupcake. “I don’t do the dawn thing. It’s been a long ass day and I plan on drinking enough to stay intoxicated for a week. Noon’s good. Noon-thirty, actually.”

Alcohol buzzed through her brain as Ren raised her glass. “Noon-thirty it is.”

* * *

 

When Julia wakes up, she sees both Brad and the dragonborn woman from the bar crouching next to her. Brad has a hand hovering over her chest, whistling through a song of healing. She blinks, head swimming when his eyes meets her. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Uh…” The lamp above her head is too bright, and she squints to alieve the pain the glow of its fire causes. She tried to lift an arm, but gasps when her muscles scream their protest. “Holy fucking shit—fuck that’s a bitch.”

“I called Magnus,” Brad says. “He says he’s coming, so just hang in there tight.”

Julia makes a noise that could be an agreement, feeling herself sink deeper into the rumble. Her head clears more, and she can start to see how the wall of the tavern had crumbled from the impact. A particular broken wood board digs into her back, and she wants nohing more than to get it away from her, but the slightest twitch of her fingers makes jolts of agony travel through her nerves. People try to stare and spectate, but the dragonborn woman glares until many feel too embarrassed to stay. Julia swallows, gathering the strength to raise her voice above Brad’s whistling. “Hey,” she croaks. “What—who are you?”

Yellow eyes dart to her. “Just a rogue who’s kinda curious.” She holds up a blue envelop, one garnished in an overload of glitter and calligraphy. “So just to let you know—I read this and it’s kinda fucked up.”

“Julia!” Magnus pushes his way through the tavern door, knocking aside a poor dwarf trying to leave. He’s pale, soaking wet as his chest heaves. Stevie sits on his back, trying to clutch both their wet shopping bags and his shirt for dear life. Julia’s sure he ran from the craftsmen district to downtown in the pouring rain, a fact she’s only more sure of the moment he sees her. He gasps, somehow getting paler, and barrels through the tables and chairs littering his path. “Oh my god—Jules, are you alright?”

She tries to smile, feeling her lips waver. “I mean, I’m not dead—”

Brad stops whistling when Magnus kneels next to her, ordering him not to move her. She watches Magnus pulls back his hands, opening and closing them until all he can do is wring and fidget. “Oh god, Jules.” His hand finds her hair, and he pulls her curls between his fingers. “Sweetie. Oh my god.”

Stevie lets go of her dad’s back, dropping the bags on the ground so that she can sit as close to her mom as she can. Her eyes are blown wide, hands shaking when she pulls a small sword from one of the bags and clutches it to her chest. She doesn’t say anything.

Julia tries to smile at her daughter in a way that tells her she’s alright. “Oh, honey. Did you get your sword?”

Stevie nods. She sniffles. Magnus places his other hand on her back.

“That’s good. Do you like it?”

The dragonborn woman clears her throat. “Hey, uh. Sorry to interrupt the special moment…” Magnus jolts, about to shout out when she holds up a hand. “Hi, Burnsides. Nice to see you again. I really tried my best to stay out of your life for, like, ever.”

Magnus takes a deep breath. “Carey. Nice to see you again. At the scene where my wife has been critically hurt.”

“So this is Carey?” Julia says.

“Please stop moving I’m trying to fix your ribs,” Brad says.

“I already called Lucretia, so she’ll handle the healing,” Magnus says offhandedly.

Brad frowns. “That vote of confidence was very much appreciated.”

Carey holds up her hands. “I had literally no place in all this. This guy was here talking about some bullshit when your, uh, wife?” He nods, and she makes a face. “Really? She’s too pretty for you.”

“ _Mmm-hmm,”_ Brad says, pretending to be very focused on healing.

“Seriously, Bradson,” Julia says. “Now? Where I’m too injured to smack you?”

Stevie starts to say something, then stops herself.

Carey frowns. “Look, this is what I know. Some guy was talking about this place called Wonderland and when your wife here recognized him, he freaked out and attacked her.” She holds out the envelope. “He left this and then just got the hell out of here.”

“Language,” Magnus says without thinking, taking the envelope in his hand. He reads the front. “ _To Julia Burnsides_ —Jules, who the heck was it?”

She swallows, wincing when magic makes her broken ribs snap back into place. She knows the weight of what she needs to say, but she wishes she could tell him someplace where they could be alone. But, with every part of her screaming not to, she says it. “It was—Magnus, you’re not going to believe it but you have to trust me. It was Taako.”

He stills. His eyes shift until it’s like she’s struck him across the face. His hand leaves her hair, and he wrings it as if he can empty his fingers of all his blood. “What?” The worst part is that he almost laughs, as if he’s expecting her to lie to him about this. She wants to yell at him for it, but she can feel a scream of pain from the hurt in her body coming up first.

“Julia? Magnus—there you are.” Lucretia pushes into the tavern, the floral patterned scarf tied around her bald head wet from the rain. She all but shoves her way through the remaining patrons, giving quick apologies until she’s at Julia’s feet. Hissing, she crouches down and draws her ivory wand. “What the hell happened here?” Her hand goes to Julia’s chest, pulling back bits of chard fabric to reveal the swelling black burn from Taako’s magic.

Magnus doesn’t flinch, breathless as he stares at his wife. ”He—you saw—are you sure?”

Brad looks down at the burn. “Are you capable of fixing that?”

“I think so.” Lucretia purses her lips, raising her wand to start her spell. “This might hurt a bit.”

“Hold on.” Julia starts to lift up, crying out in pain before settling back down again. “I’m just trying to—”

“Julia.,” Magnus says, punching out each syllable. “Are you sure it was him?”

She groans. “Yes! I’ve seen his portrait. I know his face. He said so himself.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Lucretia demands.

Magnus turns to her. “Julia thinks she was attacked by Taako.”

“I don’t think, I know.”

Lucretia’s hands loosen until the wand falls from her grasp. Slowly, her hand returns to her lap as she sits there, trying to process the very idea. She looks to where Magnus seems swamped in denial—the implications of what this means must be too much—to where Julia is exhausted and sincere on the ground. Then, off to the side, is Stevie. She looks scared out of her wits, her sword clutched close to her chest as she watches the silent argument storm between her parents.

But Taako was here, and the thought is incredible.

Then there are many footsteps behind them, and Stevie flinches at what comes through the door now.

They all look, seeing a half a dozen militia men file into the tavern. Their royal blue uniforms appear black in the lowlighting, and the tips of their military boots reflect the lamplights as orbs of orange and yellow. Five younger officers give rapt salutes to their older, sixth member—a silvery gentleman with a bushy mustache. He’s the one who approaches the barkeeper and asks about the assault that happened. And he’s the one who, when pointed to their party by the rumble, seems spooked out of his skin.

Julia winces as more pain radiates through her body. She wants Lucretia to start healing her for real now or for Brad to start whistling it all away, but everyone seems too absorbed by the sight before them to do anything. Lucretia’s thin brows are pushed together as if a puzzle is laid out before her as the captain of the squad approaches her. “I can’t believe it,” he says, taking off his prim hat to press to his breast. He gives a bow so low that he could be eyelevel with Lucretia on the floor if he only looked up. “Miss Lucretia. It’s been years now, hasn’t it?”

She starts to reply, but stops herself. She stares at him for a moment as the tension in the room turns unbearable. Then she squeaks. “Captain!” Lucretia surges to her feet, fixing her wand to her belt so that she can hold out her hand. “Excuse me—it’s been so long. I could have sworn that you were posted in Goldcliff.”

He takes her hand, bending down low to brush his lips over her knuckles. Lucretia grins and pulls her hand away, hiding it in the depths of her billowing sleeves. “I’m doing some work with the militia here in Neverwinter,” he says. His eyes skim over Magnus’s face, committing it to memory, before landing on Julia. “We received reports of an assault happening. I was told there was a healer on sight, but I can summon one if need be.”

“No thank you, I can handle it.” Lucretia kneels on the ground, drawing her wand once more. This time, she actually starts mending together Julia’s aching body.

“Hey.” Magnus rises to his feet, standing so that view of Julia and Stevie is blocked. “Who are you exactly?”

“Captain Bane of the Goldcliff Militia, contracted as of right now to do some work for Neverwinter.”

“Right.” Magnus crosses his burly arms over his chest. “Well, uh, do we have to give a statement or something? Like we don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”

Bane looks him over, smoothing his face to a professional demeanor. “A statement would naturally be in order if we were to find the culprit. What is your relationship to the victim, Mister…”

“Burnsides. I’m her husband.”

“I can assure you that we are going to do everything in our ability to bring whoever did this to justice.” One of the younger militia men who has been writing down a statement from the barkeeper shuffles up to Bane and hands him the paper. Bane gestures for Magnus to wait a moment, then scans it over.

His brow raises. He mulls over the words for a moment before handing the paper back with thanks. When he turns back to Magnus, he adjusts the medal-adorned lapels of his jacket and looks over the ragtag group surrounding Julia. “We’ve been informed of the culprit’s possible motives and current location, and I will keep you updated on the case. That being said, I will still need statements from all of you on what happened. I will, however, wait until Missus Burnsides is well to do that.”

What bits of his grin that isn’t cover by his mustache is slick and knowing. “I’ll send a summons to your residence in a few days. Since we might need you anytime between, I’ll advise you all to not leave Neverwinter. Are we clear?”

Magnus looks down at Lucretia, whose too wrapped up in her spells to pay much attention. He feels Stevie behind him, and he reaches back to place a hand on her head. “Sure,” he says. “Crystal.”

* * *

Barry rips back the brown paper, revealing a brand new hardbound book. The cover depicts the planar system with graphs and formulas lain cover it, gold etchings making up the title— _The Convergence of Arcana and Science_ _._ “Oh my god,” he says, opening the front cover to read the details inside. The dates of all the articles are within the past few years, featuring plenty Barry recognizes. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Avi leans back in his seat, a smug look on his face as he tries to play it cool. “I mean, you said that it gets pretty boring up here. I just figured that something like this could keep you busy.”

Barry meets his eyes, finding a large smile stretch on his face. A dark note thrums through him, and he quickly smothers his smile until he’s as warry and sad as before. Avi’s a nice guy; that much is obvious. His emotions say that he can trust Avi, but his he can’t forget that he’s being held in this spare bedroom against his will. It’s still too dangerous for him to even start considering what he has with Avi as anything beyond a temporary distraction.

Avi sees the drop on Barry’s face. He sits upright, a little meek as he scooches to the edge of his chair. “Uh, I tried to get something I thought you’d enjoy,” he says. “Hopefully this is stuff you don’t already know.”

“I mean…” Barry glances at the table of contents. “I kinda know all of it already—but a refresher is always good.”

“I can always get you a better one,” Avi says. “It’s what I get for asking a sales guy instead of, you know, a professor.”

“No, this is new stuff. I don’t think most people know about the theoretical relationship between the rotating motion of the planes to the gravitational pull on each. It’s just…” He weighs his options, but there’s not much left to hide when he’s already been thoroughly squeezed of all information via _zone of truth_. He tries to say it as delicately as possible. “Where I’m from, this is old news.”

Avi only looks confused.

“It’s just—the plane where I’m from, we’re about fifty years ahead of you technology wise.”

For a moment, all he does is stare. He scratches his neck. “Weren’t you—didn’t you lie about the being from a different plane thing?”

“No, I uh. Failed my save.” Barry pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear, I’m not lying about this.”

Avi raises his hands in the air. “Hey, hey. I never said—well, actually, I don’t really believe you. But, case in point, I don’t think I need to?” Barry looks up, staring as the other man rambles through his explanation. “I mean, I think I could believe that someday, but not right now. I don’t know. Maybe let’s just get back to the actual point of this whole deal: what kind of book could I give you that could make you not bored?”

Barry thinks it over for an uncomfortable moment. “I think something on inspirational magic?” he says. “It was kinda an underappreciated field back home.”

“Yeah, I can do that. I should get Johann to get in here and show you some things. He’s really good—”

A beeping of a stone of farspeech cuts through the apartment, the stone giving off a gentle glow on the coffee table that Barry can see through the crack in the doorway. Avi gives Barry what feels like a significant look, heaves a deep breath, then rises back to his feet. “Hold on,” he says, striding into the living room. He kicks the door wider on his way out, smoothing over his shirt and pants on habit before picking it up. “Bane? What’s up?”

Then, a few moments later: “What?”

* * *

“It could just be a rumor,” Leon says, smoke wafting from his mouth. His feet barely make it over the edge of the couch, but there’s nonetheless enough room on his lap for both his pipe and a little pot of extra tobacco. “Remember when we got those reports of the Fate Scissors in Brandybuck? Same scenario, down to the guy gloating about it in a tavern.”

On the coffee table, the stone of far speech lights up with Bane’s voice. “I think this one is legit. Three of the Red Robes were involved with this, and one of them even got hurt.”

Killian steeples her fingers, pressing them to her mouth. “But I’ve never heard of a single rumor about the Animus Bell in years,” she says. “This could just be an elaborate scheme is get us trapped in…” She bites back the end of the thought, choosing to shrug instead. They’re all hyperaware of Ren sitting on the opposite couch, pressed far away from Johann as she observes the hand with her two missing fingers. Ren just keeps her eyes to the side, not bothering to interact with anyone.

Leon refills his pipe. “Well, we have a Red Robe with us. Why don’t we ask him?”

“ _Zone of truth_ doesn’t work on him,” Avi says. He paces around their circle, not bothering to put his flask back into his pocket as he takes intermittent swings. “Bane, do you really think we can trust some rumor?”

“We’ve already lost a relic,” Bane says. “I don’t want to risk losing another one.”

Killian says, “Me either, but this isn’t a place we can just waltz into and check out. It’s a trap.”

“I understand that. And I don’t want to put any of you through that. But if the Animus Bell is real and the Red Robes go after it, it’ll be another relic lost.” Bane’s sigh is long and worn. “I can only hold them off for a few days before some of my coworkers start paying attention to them. It’ll only be just enough to get you to this side of Faerun. There’s a chance they’ll leave it alone, but there’s a chance they won’t. We have to be prepared for both.”

For a long moment, all they are is silent.

Then Killian shakes her head. “Okay. We’ll go for it. Me, Avi, and Johann will go.”

“Johann can’t go.” Ren tightens her hold on her umbra staff, frowning as she glares at the floor.

Killian’s face softens. “I don’t—no one wants you to go through that again, Ren.”

“I, like, can do it,” Johann says. He sets his violin aside, but he still looks as though he wants to stay as physically away from everyone else as possible.

“They can take everything away from you.” Her hands shake. “Your body, your memories, your sanity. I can lose more. You probably could too. But we can’t have Johann lose his music. We need his music to do what we do.”

Avi winces. Everyone looks a little uncomfortable with the idea no matter how right she is. Johann’s the only one who can make the song capable of mitigating the relics’ thralls. Without him, they would also be as good as dead.

Bane’s voice crackles again. “Ren, you make an excellent point. But we need a magic user to make it through Wonderland reliably. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yeah. I’ve been putting this off for too long.” She rises, taking her umbra staff in hand as she stands resolute. “It’s high time I beat them at their own game.”

 

* * *

Davenport presses his lips together, elbows balanced on each knee as he lets the impact of the story settle over him. The fire of the common room Parley assembled from their memories glows a bright orange, washing him with warmth. He sees Barry at the table with Lucretia, his shaking hands tugging the pair of glasses off his nose as he hides his face. Lucretia also looks shaken, but she’s had more time than either of them to think through the implications. Now she just looks old. Sad and old.

Magnus sits on the floor by the couch, his hand resting on top of his injured wife’s. The attack had broken a few of her ribs and shattered her ulna. A cast wraps around her arm, resting on top of her bound chest and she lies there in silence.

Merle speaks up first. “You can’t say the kid wouldn’t do that.”

“It feels wrong,” Magnus says. “It’s just—Taako wouldn’t do this. He’s not like that.”

“But he did. He—” Julia gasps, a jolt of pain going through her rib cage. “Pan-fucking—God damnit!”

Lucretia starts to stand. “I can numb it for a bit.”

“No. Nope. I got it.” Julia grits her teeth and settles deeper into the cushions. A healing potion meant to repair her bones in forty-eight hours is coursing through her veins now, but any other kind of healing magic could nullify the effects. Lucretia’s techniques would be less painful, but it’s slower. Julia needs speed. She tightens her hold on Magnus’s hand.

“It has to be Taako,” Davenport says. “Honestly, if he came back us with opened arms, I would be suspicious. If this was anyone trying to trick us, they wouldn’t attack us.”

“ _Hmm,_ what about the whole ‘fate worse than death’ thing?” Magnus says. “He can’t just be fine then?”

“I mean, it is vague,” Lucretia says. “It could mean anything.”

Merle picks the gaudy letter off the table. It’s a sparkling blue, covered in gold paisley designs that frame Julia’s name on the front. “Well,” he says, flicking his finger on the stiff paper. “We got this.”

“Hand it over.” Davenport takes the envelop, digging a finger under wax seal until he can lift it up. He pulls out a small flier, one that shows a map of the Felicity Wilds on one side, another with a short message in bright script. “Julia Burnsides,” he reads. “You are hereby invited to try your luck at Wonderland. The Animus Bell is here and waiting for you to win it. This invitation includes you and two partners. Anything your heart desires can be yours if you can earn it.”

“It sounds like a trap,” Julia says.

“It’s definitely a trap,” Magnus says.

“Would Taako lead us into a trap?” Merle asks.

“We have to assume the worst.” Lucretia leaves her chair, walking to Davenport’s side to look at the invitation herself. “What I don’t understand is how they could know we’re looking for our artefacts? If it was any of us at Costco, then I would understand. But Julia?”

“I think I know.” Barry holds his glasses in his hands, staring at his lap as his pressed lips physically holds back his words. He waits a moment for someone to stop him, but when no one does, the words tumble out of his mouth. “It’s—my bell is necromantic. I know I told you guys that much. But what it does, how it works. It’s… you guys are going to think this is horrible or stupid, but bond science has its roots in necromancy. Necromancy is in some cases just the art of manipulating broken bonds.”

Merle leans into Davenport. “How long do you think he’s going to ramble for?” he hisses.

Davenport elbows his stomach.

“With the bell, you can see people’s bonds. You can manipulate them too. And bonds can be of anything. Bonds to people you know, the world around you. Even just the idea of something. With the bell, you can see all of it.”

“So the bell is definitely in Wonderland,” Davenport says.

“I’m sorry I never told you guys what my bell did,” Barry continues. “If you’d known, you would’ve stopped me and—”

“It’s okay, Barry,” Magnus says.

“All of our stupid things were a bad idea in the making,” Merle says. He crosses the room, standing in front of Barry so that he can clasp a hand on his shoulder. In a moment, Magnus is on his feet as well, wrapping his arms around him until Barry is almost lifted out of the chair. Barry doesn’t return the hug and his eyes shift to the side, but he stops shaking. Resolute in his acceptance of what’s happened.

“If the Taako I met is a fake, the bell must be how they did it,” Julia says.

“Yes, that does make sense.” Davenport mulls over it for a long moment, occasionally glancing down at the invitation. “Okay. Here’s the plan. We wait the few days to complete our business with the Neverwinter militia. During that time, Julia, you are not to do anything strenuous. I don’t want to put you out on a mission so soon after being injured, but the invitation has your name on it. We might not get in without you. Lucretia and I will join you in there.”

Magnus lets go of Barry, a serious look on his face. “Davenport—”

“I know what you’re going to say Burnsides, and the answer is no. Your name isn’t the one on it.”

“But—”

“And in the meantime, I need you to find that rogue friend of yours and see if she knows anything about Wonderland or can get us someone who does. I want to be as prepared when we go in there as possible. Understand?”

Magnus presses his lips together.

“He understands,” Julia says. She gives him a hard look. “Right, hon?”

He grumbles. “Yeah. Right. Of course.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ever just really not satisfied with a chapter, but you're just sad enough to not care anymore? Welcome to that chapter! This definitely is a bit of a lamer follow up to the last chapter, but I really needed to make sure every character is in the spot they need to be before we can actually go into Wonderland. My favorite section is the sequence where we go back to the past to learn about Taako and Ren, and I hope that it was good enough to sort of make the wait for this past chapter even remotely worth it. Next chapter we go to Wonderland, I promise!
> 
> If you want to learn more about why only Barry would know what the Animus Bell does and get a preview for the next chapter, please check out the extended notes here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/174738083141/northern-migration-chapter-14-notes-and-preview
> 
> And before we end, I just want to give my biggest thank you to everyone who has been reading this so far. The response for last chapter was absolutely mind blowing. I've been having a hard time these past few weeks, and every single comment and kudos really did help brighten my day. I swear that the next chapter is not only going to be better than this one, but will probably come out sooner. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for sticking around. I love you all!!!!!! XOXOXOXXOXOXOXOXOX


	15. In Which Lucretia Is a Little Less Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Wonderland! Whatever your heart desires can be yours, but you're going to have to earn it first.

There once was a girl named Ren who traveled with a boy named Taako. After a few months of journeying, they seemed to fit together well. He taught her the skills she needed to know to become a proper adventurer, if only so that he could dump more the work onto her. She reminded him to have a heart, urging him every so often to set aside their missions for a day to help some village in need. Together, they fought off cults of warlocks seeking destruction and dragons terrorizing the countryside. They looked for Taako’s missing sister and a safe place to hide (as Ren dubbed it) the Temporal Chalice.

She learned that Taako could spend hours showing her how to perform spells outside of her specialty, but when it came to his personal life, he shut down. Some days he waved away her questions with brusque assertions that he had always been alone, that there was nothing to his life beyond some sister Ren only knew the name of. Other days, he grew solemn. Quiet. There would be times he would start to explain something about his past—the start of a memory that lights up his face like fireworks—before invisible hands shoved the words back down his throat.

Through trial and error, she learned without him saying that he wanted her to prob. To pester and insist, but let off whenever he got too silent. It was like he wanted a reminder of what this mission made him leave behind. The silence was anger. Bitter anger he never wanted to speak to life.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but the jabs he sent her way seemed more reassuring than cruel. When he snidely told her that she always had the saloon to return back to, she heard a reminder that there was nothing weighing on her shoulders. What she did now was for her alone. No great expectations, no parent-given prophecy to live up to. If he meant it to be a reassurance or a jeer, she did not care. She knew better than to levy parts of herself onto anyone.

By the time spring started to set upon the land, their journey found them in a small western village called Brandybuck. As any traveler could expect, the name came from their town’s main industry—brandy (Soberton also exported brandy, but they didn’t have the best branding). A brewery had recently been the victim of cruel arson from the competing town, leaving many of the town’s famial breadwinners too burned to even move. Or, at least, that was what the innkeeper said as she placed two bowls of rich stew on their quaint table.

“That sounds awful,” Taako said, weaving his spoon between his fingers as he talked. “Is it at all possible that anyone saw the culprit in the act? A, uh, _witness_ of sorts?”

At that, Ren looked up from the map she had spread on her half of the table. “A what?”

The innkeeper shook her head. “Not one that I’ve heard of. The sucker got away in the dead of night.”

“Interesting,” Taako said.

Ren nodded, putting on an interested face. They had only a few days ago prevented two teenage lovers from committing suicide over star-crossed love (the resolution being Taako yelling at all parties involved for no less than thirty minutes about the sheer stupidity on display). It was too soon even in her books to begin looking for another side quest.

“Now, my dear lady, you seem to be of the knowledgeable type,” Taako continued. “So, uh, riddle me this—do you know whether or not the flames were, uh, magical in origin?”

The innkeeper smiled. “I wouldn’t know much about that—there ain’t many magic users around these parts, but there’s this lovely healer in town who’s helping those poor folks. She was here a few days ago going on about all the places she’s been. She might be able to tell you something.”

“ _Excellent_. Thank you.” He sent her away with a wave made of wiggling fingers, smug as he pretended to not notice the confused expression on Ren’s face.

“What’re you planning, whiz?” she asked.

“Just a simple idea.” He plopped a spoonful of stew into his mouth, making a face before swallowing it down. “Under salted. Do you taste the oregano?”

Ren ate some of her own as well. “Oh, geez. That’s potent.”

“Ex-act-ly. Wrong herb.” Taako pulled his bag off the floor and onto his lap, rummaging through his sets of supplies. “So Lup’s specialty is evocation with a particular penchant for fire. Big explosions and stuff. So the so-called arsonist might really be her.”

“Like, being framed for the act?” Ren asked.

“Oh, no. Lup would totally do it, no questions asked.”

“I’m also an evocation specialist. Plenty of people are.”

“Listen, I’ll do the whole _have you seen my sister_ speech later if this doesn’t pan out.” He unloaded a few small jars filled with dried herbs, labeled in a dialect of elvish Ren had never seen before. He once said he was from New Elfington, but even the hoity-toity lilt there wasn’t as bizzare as this one. “It’s high time we shook things up a bit. Start looking in places we haven’t checked out.” His frown tightened. “Like, hell. We might not even have the same face anymore. It’s possible.”

Like that, he brightened up again, handing over the jars. “Mix a few pinches of this shit in there. See if it makes it less barf inducing.”

They spent a solid hour at the tavern, trying different concoctions of herbs and spices to improve their food. It was only a little past midday when they settled their tab and made their way across the small town to the temple. Inside the wood steeple, the long benches had been stacked to the side to make way for the long rows of makeshift beds. A few holy men and women in their grey garbs and hair concealing habits worked to change bandages and apply healing salves. Taako and Ren took one step into the hall, Ren taking a moment to genuflect.

Taako froze.

On the other side of the temple was a willowy human with dark skin. Her cropped curls were white, framing her face as she held an ivory wand over a patch of burnt flesh. Her low voice spread through the hall like a song, seemingly turning the motes of dust into specks of gold.

No quips or jokes. In seconds, Taako grabbed Ren’s arm and dragged her out. He smacked a hand over her mouth before she could object, uncaring as her heels made two lines in the dirt road as he escaped as far from the temple as possible. Only when they were back under the swinging sign of the tavern did Taako toss Ren away. She tipped before catching her balance, about to say something when Taako groaned.

“Motherfucker!” He kicked the side of the building. He shouted, his foot going to his hands to nurse as he hopped on one foot. He changed strategies, taking a fistful of his giant wizard hat and throwing it onto the ground. “Son of a—”

“Hey!” She snapped thrice. “Hey! What’s this about?”

“Lucy!” he shouted, marching a circle in the ground. He threw his hands through the air, as if he could swat the problem away. “Since when did Miss-Know-It-All get a new hobby? Last I checked, she doesn’t even know what a fucking Band-Aid is!”

Ren took a deep breath. “Taako—”

He whipped around, jamming his finger into her chest. “I’m going to say this once,” he sneered with the ugliest scowl Ren had ever seen. “I’m having a mental break down right now. I am _this close_ to shitting myself like a scared cat before showing everyone in a twenty mile radius what it means to be pissed beyond recognition. Whatever you say better be something that’s not a stupid fucking _calm down_.”

“I was just going to say—”She didn’t let any emotion show on her face. “—I don’t know what a Band-Aid is.”

It was like a bubble had popped, the fury leaving him blinking with ears lowered. “Uh.” He stared at her for a long moment, the jabbed finger going limp. “Uh. Well. Uh. Okay.”

“I have you attention? Great.” Ren picked up the hat, taking a moment to dust off the dirt, before jamming it onto his head. “I don’t know who this Lucy person is or what happened between you two. But whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. The tavern keeper said that she’s traveled a lot. If there’s anyone who is going to know anything about Lup or this cup, it’s going to be her. Get over it, cast _disguise self,_ and get that information.”

He glared at her, looking like a sad puppy as her hands held down the wide brim of his hat. “Let it be known—I _will_ end you.”

He chose the form of a dopey looking human, one Ren was pretty sure she saw milling around the town earlier. Ren was a little slyer, casting the spell to look like a sun elf version of herself. Then, with much complaining from one member of the party, they made their way back to the temple.

The woman—Lucy, Taako called her—knelt next to an injured halfling, letting her blue magic weave into the burnt skin. Taako hesitated at the door, took a deep breath, then sauntered in. “Hello mysterious lady.” _Disguise self_ did nothing to effect the caster’s voice, but Ren swore he did something to change it. Those were his vocal cords, but he didn't sound like himself.

Lucy looked up, her gaze narrowing. Her wand kept the spell going, but her other hand moved to her side.

Taako stopped in his tracks, raising his hands in the air. “Hey there. No need for that. I just want to ask you a question.”

 _His cadence,_ Ren realized. That was the difference. All his little catch phrases and slang, gone. Every word from his mouth was stiff and colorless. Something not Taako.

Her hand stayed at her side, no less suspicious. “And who are you?”

“I’m Jus—Griffin. Just Griffin.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucy said.

Ren stepped in front of Taako, throwing her arms up in a grand gestured that was bigger than anything the dopey human disguise next to her could ever hope to manage. “And I’m Arwren—the greatest wizard you’re ever going to meet this week!” she announced.

Lucy laughed a little. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance Arwren and Griffin.” A slight smile spread on her lips. “Give me a second.” Happiness shined on her face as she finished up the rest of her spell, her bright eyes delighting in the strict focus of her task.

Taako’s hands made fists in a weak attempt to hold back his trepidations. His wizard hat was hidden away, his disguise being the one thing keeping the swell of emotions from his face. Ren searched for any of the unspoken rage and bitterness, but found heartbreak. Pure, unrelenting, sorrow. Ren tapped her elbow, asking with no words if he needed to leave. He pushed her away, turning his face away from the healer as she finished up her spell.

Lucy gave a few last words of assurance to her patient before rising to her feet. “Sorry for the wait. I presume you must already know who I am if you’ve sought me out.”

Taako said nothing.

“You have to excuse him,” Ren said, taking up more space in front of him. “He’s a little broken up by this whole thing. The innkeeper said that you were someone we could go to for some information about the brewery fire. Can you tell if the fire was caused by magic or not.”

“From what I can tell, none of the burns are from magically created flames.” She looks at Taako. “Did you lose someone in the fire?”

Taako shook his head. “No, no. I, uh, I’m from out of town. Looking for someone and all that.”

“Me too.” She picked her satchel off the ground, sorting through a few items before pulling out a blue book. “That I’m looking for someone, I mean. Please tell me if you’ve seen or heard anything about them. Here.” She opened to a page in the middle of the book—so often she had done this that the spine falls open there naturally. On either page was a detailed illustration of two elves—the arms held out to show every little detail, a small collection of facial expressions diagramed at the bottom. One side had a curvy woman who looked a little like Taako. The other was the man himself.

Taako flinched.

“I’m looking for my two friends,” Lucy explained. “They’ve been missing for about five years now. Their names are Taako and Lup. The older twin, Lup, disappeared first and is an evocation specialist while her brother is a master at transmutation. He was last seen—”

Taako pushed the book away. “Haven’t seen them,” he muttered, arms crossed over his chest. He chewed his lip for a moment. “What did they do?”

“Pardon?” Lucy said.

“You’re looking for them—what did they do? Steal money? Hurt someone?”

“No, no. They didn’t.” Her face fell. “They’re my family, and we got into a huge fight over… something. I’m worried about them.”

Taako’s knuckles turned white as his nails dug into the meat of his palm. “Listen, I—” He stopped himself. “Where did you learn to heal? I mean—you’re okay at it.”

She laughed a little, thankful for the change of subject. “Well. I used to do something very different for a living and it was causing me more pain than happiness. Helping people, I find, is therapeutic.”

He nodded. “Cool. Cool.” He mulled over it for a moment. “I have to get going. Got an arsonist to catch and everything.” He looked up, met her eyes for a moment, before turning away again. “I hope you find them. Who you’re looking for. I do.”

Lucy smiled. “And you as well.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out, leaving Ren to thank her for the information. When she caught him outside, his spell was still on, but now he was pacing a nervous circle in the dirt. When he saw her, he kicked the ground and started in a random direction. “Let’s blow this joint,” he said.

Ren trotted to catch up. “You wanna talk about it, whiz?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Taako replied. “Just a random run in with some person I used to know.”

True to his word, he said little the next few days—caught in the throes of a memory reborned to haunt him. Even when he returned to his normal self, he never said anything about Lucy. Ren knew better than to ask.

* * *

 

Neverwinter’s militia is so congested with cases that Captain Bane doesn’t summon them for their interview until a few days later. The process takes no more than an hour and, after a few papers are signed, he smiles and asks Lucretia what she was doing later that week. Her smile is tight as she replies, “My family and I are getting ready to move onto the next place. You know how road trips go.”

And he smiles, kisses her hand one last time, and wishes her well.

Magnus wrestles Carey into joining them on the _Starblaster_ one evening, appeased with rich beer as she tells them what she knows. “It depends on who you ask. A lot of people say that you go in there, go through some trials, and walk away with whatever you were looking for. There’s a lot who also say that it’s a death trap.”

“And what are the trials?” Magnus asks.

And she shrugs. “It changes. Deadly mazes, chess games, straight up battle royale. Nothing too fun to do.”

When their week is up and all the casts on Julia are chipped away, Davenport gives the order. Time to go to Wonderland.

* * *

 

Magnus sits at the edge of the bed, tugging his undershirt over his head. A collection of scares and tattoos decorate his chest with very little clue as to which are intentional and which are mistakes. Some of the scars seem placed by an artist’s hand, meant to highlight a muscle or hint at a deeper story. Each of the tattoos are no bigger than a fist, a large span apart from each other with no clear link between each. His hair, still damp from his shower, clings to his neck as he takes a moment to roll the muscles there and relax.

In the one sliver of standing space in his old dorm, Julia finds the shirt she is looking for under a pile of clothes. Now that her arm is out of the cast, he watches her pull it on with ease, the ends reaching far below her butt, before kicking her day clothes into the growing pile by the basket in the corner. “We need to do laundry soon,” he says.

She hums a note, pausing, really seeing the pile of clothes for the first time. “Alright, um, should we just do it now?”

“I mean…” He leans over, yanking open the drawer of their small dresser. “You still got a pair of pants. You can just steal my shirt tomorrow.”

“And you’ll wear?”

“Merle. The spring collection. Gucci and all that stuff.”

She snorts. She climbs onto the bed and crawls over the sheets until she’s on her side by the window. “I’ll do it now if you want,” he says. “But you have an early day tomorrow. You need to sleep.”

“I’m fine borrowing your shirt, Space Boy,” she says into the pillow. “Turn off the light.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t move. “Jules?”

“ _Mmhm?”_

“I’m sorry.”

She sits up, pushing a long curtain of curls away from her face as she goes. “For what?”

“Parley. The other day. I didn’t—I know you want to go out there. I should’ve been more supportive.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” She wraps her arms around his neck, pressing herself deep into his back as she presses her cheek into his head. “Don’t beat yourself up. You haven’t tried to stop me, and that’s what I care about. I know you’re not thrilled I’m going because I hated it when you went on that train without me. I know you’re scared.”

His hand wraps around her forearm. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” She kisses the spot behind his ear. “Just promise that I won’t lose you either.”

“I promise.” He cranes his neck, turning so that he can see her face. He kisses the side of her mouth, feeling her chest rise and fall against his skin. He lost his parents and siblings. He lost Taako and Lup. He can’t bear the idea of losing another anyone else. Not Julia, not Stevie. No one else, ever again.

* * *

 

Neverwinter is surrounded on one side by rolling hills endowed with farmers tilling the soil for their daily work. Walk down the path long enough and the bends in the road will, after many days, take a weary traveler to the beaches of the northeastern coast. But to the west of the capital city, there is a forest. Not every tree hides a goblin waiting to attack or a flesh craving monster hunting for its next meal. The paths carved through the thicket and paved in stone ensures the safest passage for anyone traveling through.

But if one goes off the path, the trees press closer together. The foliage is thicker, and there are patches of earth where the sun has not shined in a century. Monsters of unspeakable forms lurk in the shadows, prowling. Waiting.

This is the Felicity Wilds.

The _Starblaster_ makes a few laps over it, but even with everyone leaning over the side rails, the supposed building hiding inside is nowhere to be seen. “Might be illusions,” Davenport says. “I think we’ll just have to land and go in the old fashion way.”

“That’ll take half a day,” Julia says. Her pants are belted high up her waist, an oversize white shirt tucked into it. She buckles the various straps of her chest and arm armor to her body, Magnus helping her where her hands can’t reach. Her red bandana ties her hair into a low ponytail so that a helmet can be fitted on top.

“No other choice. I don’t want to be dropped into something I’m not prepared for.” Davenport sets the ship on course for the edge of Neverwinter, stepping away from the wheel only enough to pull his own emblazoned red jacket on. With their memorable introduction a few months ago, wearing their uniforms might give them an intimidation advantage. “Magnus.”

“Yeah,” Magnus says, fitting the bucket of her armor brace around her forearm.

“This is important, so listen up.” At that, Magnus’s shoulders drop as he brings himself upright. Davenport keeps his hands behind his back, unsure of where else to put them. “I am most likely being overly cautious here, but there is a chance that we might be ensnared by whatever trap Wonderland is. If we do not make contact with the ship in three days, consider us lost. Find Barry and the twins before proceeding with the mission. Understand?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Magnus shrugs. “Precautions and all that.”

“Thank you.” Davenport turns back to the wheel. “When you are done here, also do me the favor of informing Merle.”

Magnus winces as Julia makes a pained noise. “You might want to tell him yourself, Dav,” she says.

“Seriously, Cap’n Port,” Magnus says. “You don’t wanna make it worse.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His grip on the wheel tightens until he feels the shoulder that took knife a while back begin to ache.

The _Starblaster_ lands on a flat stretch of grassy field. Julia kisses her husband and daughter goodbye, words of love falling off her lips like summer rain. Lucretia slips the pair of stolen headphones around her friend's neck and gives her a reassuring grin. Then she takes her red robe from Merle’s hands and pulls her blue sleeves through it. And Davenport looks at Merle until the dwarf looks at him back. They stare at each other for a long moment—Merle waits, Davenport contemplates.

Merle breaks first. “Dav—”

“I’ll see you soon.” With that, Davenport turns his back, starts off the gangplank.

It doesn’t take the three of them long to hit the edge of the forest. Julia takes one step onto the paved road when her pocket bursts in heat. She yelps, causing the other two to stop. She fumbles to pull the heating letter into the daylight. The map on the backside engulfs in a bright, magical light. “Oh shit,” she says as the black ink turns a cerulean blue. It lifts off the paper, straightening into a single line.

Then, with a whistling noise, it zaps through the air. A bright light points them through the woods, off the main road and into the wilds.

Julia gawks at it for a moment as Lucretia makes an appreciative noise. “Magical GPS,” she says, taking the letter from the other human’s hands. She waves the paper through the air a few times, watching in fascination as the light adjusts to the new position. “Gnarly.”

“What’s GPS,” Julia says.

“I guess they don’t want us getting lost,” Davenport says. “Great. Let’s get going.” He pushes forward and steps off the path, following after the light.

“What’s GPS,” Julia repeats, following after him.

They spend the next few hours hiking through the woods, stepping over roots and rocks as they chase after the beam of light. They’re stopped every now and then by a stray chimera attack or an attempted highway robbery, but they’re out of the fire as soon as they enter it. Davenport just starts to wonder if they might have to consider camping for the night when the trees start to thin out.

“Up ahead,” Julia warns, pushing to the front of the group so that she can be on the defensive. They step onto a new path, one made of dirt and moss, that follows the same line as their beam of light. And, they can see where the line ends—a daunting, circular building with a black and white pattern all the way around. The pattern flashes and changes, and it is only when they draw nearer that they can see that the whole building seems to be spinning. “Guess that’s where we’re going.”

Lucretia gasps. “Look.” Nailed to one of the old oaks is a large board with an image on the front that shifts colors the longer they look. It swirls and twists until finally settling on one image—a plain copper bell. Bright gold words announce that the bell is inside, if only they can win it.

“Did Barry say anything about it doing this?” Julia asks.

“Bond magic is complicated,” Davenport says, tight mouthed. “It’s feasible, but I never would’ve thought of using it like this.”

“And what would you use it for?” Julia asks.

“An engine.”

She snorts.

There are more billboards that pop up as they draw closer, each advertise the Animus Bell. When they’re right at the foot of the building, it jerks to a stop, landing on a black space. Gold cursive letters spell out _Julia Burnsides—_ then, a moment later: _Lucretia_ and _Captain Davenport of the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration_ _._ A rectangle in the wall disappears, as if never having existed, to create a doorway into an all-consuming blackness.

“Last chance to turn back,” Davenport says.

“For the record,” Julia says. “This is a massive trap.”

“Astute observation,” Lucretia says.

Julia wrinkles her nose, pulling out her stone of farspeech. “Julia to the _Starblaster._ Arrived at Wonderland. About to head in now.”

Magnus’s voice cackles to life as the stone glows. “ _Starblaster_ to Mission Team. You are in the clear. Good luck and be safe. I love you, Jules.”

“Same, babe. Love you." She turns it off and pockets it. Then, with a sure fire grin, draws her sword and leads the way on in. Lucretia shakes her head and follows. Davenport takes one last look around the Felicity Wilds and follows on after.

The doorway disappears behind them, as if it was never there to begin with.

* * *

 

Wonderland is a sensory circus. Walls that are not there hum and shake with the booming bass of music that leaves the heart skipping and jived. Bright lights beam psychedelic colors through the room, making whites seem neon pink and skin lime green. They swirl and confuse, warping the world around them until all you can focus on are two elves—male and female—who strike poses as they revel in their performance.

All the while, Julia keeps her sword and shield out and ready, prepared to set both aside if she decides to use the spear strapped to her back instead. Lucretia doesn’t draw her wand, but hovers a hand over the pocket it sits in. And Davenport crosses his arms over his chest, frowning as he taps an inpatient foot on the multi-colored floor.

Once they hit the end of their performance, they remain posed on the circular stage with the female elf sitting with one leg dangling off the edge while the other leg remains bent to give her draping arm a table to rest on. The male stands straddled legged above her, a hand balanced on one of her comically large shoulder pads as he simpers. “You made it,” he says as his gold cape billows about him. “Welcome to Wonderland.”

Half of the female elf’s head is shaven, and she flicks the side with greasy magenta hair back. “Hopefully you didn’t have too much trouble navigating the Wilds,” she says, voice dripping with warm honey.

Davenport clears his throat. “We—”

And the male elf is behind Lucretia, causing her to flinch as he fits the side of his body-tight suit up against her red robe. “Are you excited for your quest’s end?” He swipes his finger up her neck, eyelids growing heavier when he flicks it off her chin. “Whatever you seek, you will find it in Wonderland.”

Lucretia sputters before stomping her foot down on his, but he’s already five feet away, striking a pose that emphasizes how long his arms are.

A pair of hands clasp Julia’s shoulders and a pair of painted lips are at the shell of her ear. “It’s not gonna come—”

Julia whirls around, slashing her sword at what appears to be nothing. The female elf is already back on stage, lounging like a prize waiting to be won. “Ooo, careful Julia,” she says. “You might hurt someone with that.”

Julia bites back a groan, fixing her stance so that she’s facing the front again. “Then stop looking to be hurt.”

“Meow. Feisty.” Her acrylic nails make perfect claws as she paws the air. “I like that.”

Julia doesn’t say anything, but Davenport claps his hands together. “Well. I’m extremely uncomfortable,” he announces.

“No need for that, Captain.” When the male elf returned to the stage, none of them saw, but now he sits next to the female. “We just want you to know what you’re getting into before starting the game. It’s only fair that you know all the terms and conditions, right?”

“Agreed,” Davenport says. “But please keep the PDA to a minimum.”

The male elf smiles benignly. “The rules are simple. You will be evaluated through a series of tests and games in order to determine the extent to which you truly want your prize.”

The female elf says, “The tests will be rough, but they’re important. In Wonderland you can only find the things you truly desire by losing the things that hold you back. You follow the rules of the tests, you push through the pain, and you will leave here happy.”

And the male elf says, “You break the rules, you try to find shortcuts, and you won’t leave here…” He gestures vaguely. “Happy.”

“We just want the Animus Bell,” Davenport says.

Both of the elves grin so that all of their teeth shine as brightly as the sparkles on their bodysuits. “And that’s where we’re going to have to deviate from the standard,” the female elf says. “After all, you’re not the only ones seeking the bell.”

Lush velvet curtains on the other side of the room that certainly were not there before pull back, and twin spotlights beam down to reveal Avi, Killian, and Ren.

Davenport coughs, standing a little straighter as Killian blinks through the bright lights until she can see them in return. She groans. “Damn it. I thought we beat you guys here!”

Avi forces a grin and waves. “Hey there.”

Ren’s brows furrow together, but she says nothing. Her arms are crossed over her chest, but her umbrella is hooked through the belt around her waist.

Lucretia shifts awkwardly on her feet, raising a hesitant hand in return. “Hi? Uh, funny seeing you guys here.”

“Where’s Magnus Burnsides?” Killian calls out.

“He’s on a break,” Julia shouts back. “Hi, I’m Julia by the way! I don’t know if he mentioned me.”

Killian looks floored. “ _The_ Julia?”

“Ah, cool. He did.”

One of the Wonderland elves snaps their fingers. The ground beneath them rumbles, causing their exchanges to draw to a close as the walls shift. From nothing, the rounded all-encompassing stands of a coliseum circles the space. They rise stories into the air, countless people decked in the same gaudy wear as the elves fill the seats, cheering and clapping.

The spotlight shifts back to the circular stage where the male and female now stand with a microphone in each hand. “Wonderland offers such a large variety of prizes and treasures that we very rarely have different people going after the same reward at once,” the female says.

“But when it does happen,” the male continues. “We have a certain game we like to play. Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the _My Enemy, My Enemy, and Me_ Tournament!”

The roar that comes from the crowd is deafening.

Davenport speaks so that Lucretia and Julia can hear. “Fuck.”

“The rules are simple. Each team will compete against each other to see who is more deserving of the Animus Bell. If you win a round, your team will get an advantage. If you lose, your team will receive a punishment.”

The female elf says, “Whoever has the most points at the end of the tournament will get the bell. The losers will…” She smiles. “Well, you’ll find out.”

Ren’s voice cuts through the commotion, surging a mighty step forward as she holds out her rod. “And what if we refuse?”

The female elf twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Then the other team will get dibs on the bell, and surely you don’t want that.”

She gives Killian and Avi a look, one filled with equal parts fear and hatred. It’s the orc who places a hand on her shoulder and pulls her back, daring to look the two elves in the eye. “Alright. We’ll play.”

The elves look towards Davenport. “And you, Captain?”

He waits for Julia and Lucretia to give small nods before tilting his chin upwards. “You don’t leave us much of a choice. We agree.”

“Excellent!” The crowd roars their applauses as the music kicks up another jaunty, techno beat. “Normally, we would go easy on beginners since we wouldn’t want to discourage them, but we have a returning player here with us tonight! It would only be fair if we make this difficult enough that even veterans thinks it's a little challenging. ” The male elf throws out an arm, directing the spotlight back onto Ren. “Give it up for our favorite drow—Ren!”

“What!” Julia shoots the elves a dirty glare. “There’s no way that’s fair!”

The female elf wags a finger. “Ah-ah. Don’t be a sorry sport, Julia. The games haven’t even started yet. Show a little sportsmanship.”

To Julia’s credit, she does show sportsmanship, but it’s in the form of rolled eyes and an extended middle finger—first at the elves, then at Ren. The poor girl only looks aghast, trying to give profuse apologies to a unnerved Avi and Killian and defend herself to Julia.

Lucretia grabs Julia’s shoulder and yanks her back. “Chill,” she says as the velvet curtain cuts between the space again, separating their enemy from sight. “Don’t play into it.”

“You know it’s unfair,” Julia says. “Like, you know that. Right?”

“Of course we do,” Davenport says. “I want to play this game as much as you guys do, but we’re going to have to see how this place actually works before we can dismantle it.” He nods towards the crowd. “I can already tell that the audience is nothing more than an illusion. I can’t get a grasp on the rest of this place though. It feels like magic, but endless. I’ve never seen magic that’s not finite before.”

“We would know if it was a pocket dimension,” Lucretia says.

“It might not even be magic to begin with.” Julia glares around the room. “Might be something in the air. A gas or something, messing with our heads.”

“Alright, everybody! Welcome back from our commercial break! This is Edward live from Wonderland!” They return their attention back to the stage, surprised to see only the male elf standing on the stage. He winks and makes a few poses for the crowd, flipping his bobbed hair to the wild cheers of his fans. “In order to participate in any of the rounds, our teams are going to have to make a spin on the Wheel of Sacrifice.”

On cue, a section of the floor rises up. A daunting wheel comes to display, sectioned off into nine multicolored sections adorned with a single symbol. There’s too many for any of them to get a long glance at before the male elf is leaning against the wheel. “The rules are simple. You get one spin for every member on your team.” Three bulbs at the top of the wheel go bright. “Whatever you land on will determine what you will have to give up if you want to advance. You are, of course, free to refuse if you land on something you value too much to lose, but there will be a penalty for your reluctance.”

“What’s the penalty?” Davenport asks.

The male elf winks. “You’re just going to have to find out.” He steps away. “Remember—whoever spins the wheel has to make the sacrifice.”

“Cool,” Julia says, sheathing her sword to free her hand. “I’ll go first.”

She makes two steps before Davenport grabs her arm. “As your captain, I should go first.”

“I admire that, but as the girl who has to keep your alive, I should spin the death wheel thing first just to see if it checks out.” She frees her hand and approaches the wheel. She sends a sarcastic thumb’s up before putting a hand on the wheel and giving it a good push.

The colors on the wheel shift and turn as the nails lining the circle clicks the tab. Around and around it goes before landing on a skull.

“Skull is an interesting one,” Edward says.

“Great. What does it do?”

“Skull’s like… delayed gratification. Not for you but for me. All that will happen is that you face some very serious bad luck in the future. I can’t tell you what that’s going to be, but I will guarantee that it will be very, very dire.”

Julia makes a face. “Just me?”

“You are the one who spun the wheel.”

She sighs. “Sure. That’s not horrible. I’ll take it.”

One of the bulbs turns off.

When Julia returns, Davenport adjusts his jacket. “Now can I go?” When she snorts, he takes it as a sign to approach the wheel himself. He has to stand on the tips of his toes to reach the wheel, but he manages to get a hand on one of the nails and pulls.

 _Thuck, thuck, thuck_ —the wheel slows, landing on another symbol: an eye.

“Let’s see…” Edward taps his chin. “Even with a raised difficulty, losing a whole eye might be a little too much for someone as green as you.” He smiles. “Ooh. I know what we’ll do. Being a gnome of your age, your vision is spectacular. I’ll really be evening the playing field if I made you just a little bit blind. Don’t make that face now!” Davenport smooths the fear from his face, earning a laugh from the elf. “It’s nothing too serious. And I’ll even let you chose. You can either be near-sighted or far-sighted.”

Davenport presses his lips together. “So if I accept this sacrifice,” he says, enunciating every syllable. “I will not have twenty-twenty perfect vision anymore?”

“Exactly.”

“Captain.” Lucretia starts to step forward, before deciding against it. “You need your sight to pilot the _Starblaster.”_

“I can always get a pair of glasses, Lucretia.” He sighs, returning his attention to Edward. “Fine. I’ll take being far-sighted.”

Davenport blinks. He looks at the wheel, and he knows it’s right in front of him but he can’t make out what any of the symbols are. He looks up at Edward’s face. He’s right there, yet he can’t see the elf’s slender nose and sharp chin. He turns, stumbles a bit when his feet make contact with the blurry floor. Julia and Lucretia are in perfect detail, the shock reading clearly on their faces as he meanders back to their sides. Yet, with every step, they become less and less clear until they’re the same blurry mess Edward was. Davenport walks right into Julia’s legs, catching himself on the metal guards strapped to her shins.

“Careful,” she says, squatting down to his height. She places two hands on his shoulders, helping him to steady. His eyes, once green and vivid, are dulled to a dirty shade of grey. “Oh my god.”

“It’s that bad?” he says, trying to smile as he finds his feet once again. His perspective is out of sorts, and the jumping lights around him are doing nothing for his case.

“It’s—uh. Well, yeah. It’s like a hundred times worst than I thought. And it’s kinda getting even worst the longer I think about it.”

“Great. Love the confidence.”

Lucretia kneels next to them. “I can try healing it,” she offers.

“Ah-ah-ah.” They can hear the slimy grin on Edward’s lips as he speaks into his mic. “You know the one rule of Wonderland. Once you lose something, it’s gone forever.”

Lucretia frowns. “Yeah, okay. The minute we’re out of here, watch what I can do.”

Edward looks at her in a way that makes the hairs on her neck spark with annoyance. “If that’s what helps you participate, then be my guest and believe that all you want. Are you going to spin the wheel next, Lucretia? Or will one of your friends be taking your place?”

“I only got bad luck,” Julia says. “I can go again.”

Lucretia shakes her head. “No, no. It’s only fair that I give it a go.” Resigned, she walks with her back straight up to the wheel. She looks like a regal queen as she takes in the sight of the one last lit bulb and all of the symbols on the wheel. Then she takes the wheel and spins it.

“I have to say, body is not our most elegant selection on the wheel,” Edward explains once it stops. “But all we're going to do for body is sort of take away some of your vitality, some of your living essence, if that makes sense. We're not gonna hurt you, ‘cause, well, that’s no fun, but we are going to make you less alive.”

“Less alive, but not dead,” Lucretia deadpans. “That’s some revolutionary shit right there.”

“Time’s ticking, Lucretia.”

She hesitates. “I mean… fine. I’ll take being less alive. Sure.”

The last bulb turns off, and Lucretia doesn’t feel less alive. At least, not how she thought it would feel. Her stomach churns and sours, as if she’s just eaten too many sweets and one more bite will make her sick. She places a hand over it, waiting for the feeling to go away. But it persists, never getting worse but also never getting better.

“Are you okay?” Davenport calls as Lucretia lingers at the wheel longer than she should.

“Do you feel less alive?” Julia asks.

Lucretia bites back the unpleasant feeling until she can mostly ignore it, giving a solid thumb’s up. “We’re fine,” she says.

Before she can make her way back to her friends, the wheel lowers back into the ground. The velvet curtain pulls away, once again bringing the other half of the room into view. Avi, Killian, and Ren stand before their own lowering wheel with the same bewildered if not frazzled look. This time, when Avi raises his hand for a wave, they can clearly see his missing thumb. But beyond that, there’s no obvious changes.

But, when Lucretia thinks about it, none of them will be able to tell just by looking that she’s any less alive, or that Davenport can’t see something an inch in front of his face.

The female elf slinks back onto the elevated stage with Edward, mad with glee as she waits for the cheers to die down. “What a successful round at the wheel of sacrifice. On team headphone, Avi took an extra sacrifice so that dear Ren wouldn’t have to. What a brave lad.”

“And on the Red Robes,” Edward continues. “The captain of the _Starblaster_ gave up some of his sight. Looks like he’s not going to be an expert pilot any longer.”

The room shifts. The two teams are farther apart, seamlessly on different ends of the arena. Sensing danger, Julia draws her sword and raises her shield once again. Davenport and Lucretia draw their wands. Another section of the flashing ground rises into the air, this time a cylinder with a bright flashing button on top.

Metal screeches.

Iron plates wrap around Lucretia and Davenport’s feet, trapping them in place. Julia shouts in surprise, turning to help them when she realizes that her feet are still free. Davenport grabs his own knee and yanks on it. “Damnit.” He glances up and gasps. “Julia, look.”

Avi and Ren are in a similar position, with Killian as the one with the freedom to move. They all seem to see each other at the same time and, for an agonizing moment, all they can do is stare.

“Welcome to the first round of _My Enemy, My Enemy, and Me,”_ the female elf says. Both she and the male elf longue on two thrones made of gold and glittering gems, their legs thrown carelessly over the armrests as they gesture to the arena. “This is a little segment we like to call the Zap Zone. The rules are simple. Each team has a button that, when pressed, will _zap_ away half the health of two of the team members. It’s up to the third member to both protect their team’s button and press the button on the enemy team. Whoever’s button is pressed is the loser.”

She grins, letting the horror of the situation dawn upon everyone. “Ready, steady— _let's go_!"

* * *

Taako is scared. He's angry and terrified.

But for the first time in a long time, he feels just the tiniest bit of hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're here, folks! Welcome to Wonderland! If you haven't already been able to tell, I'm super excited for this arc. Excited and scared. On one hand, I fully intend on milking the Suffering Game arc for everything that it will get me. But beyond one or two spins on the wheel that I have planned for plot reasons, all the other spins and sacrifices are being determined by me actually spinning a wheel for each character. When I spun eye for Davenport the first time, I lost my shit.
> 
> EDIT: I forgot the little bit with Taako at the end there! OMG! I really hope none of you ended up missing it. 
> 
> If you want to know what Avi and Killian's sacrifices were and get a preview of the next chapter, check out the extended chapter notes here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/175118095006/northern-migration-chapter-15-notes-preview
> 
> I hope you guys aren't sick of me waxing poetry about how grateful I am for everyone who's read and dropped reviews and kudos because I can honestly go on about it all day. Getting this far into the story would've been impossible without you guys and I can only hope and pray that I can make all of this worth while in the end. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!! xoxoxoxxoxo


	16. In Which Julia Rips Off an Arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonderland: Round One!  
> The Task: hit the button, or else.

There was once a girl named Ren and this was her first time in jail. She wanted to blame it on Taako, but the bar fight was her fault. She thought the elaborate hand signal Taako had sent her way from across the bar meant that he needed saving from the two-hundred pounds of handsome laying the compliments on hard. That was how she found herself launching the first evocation spell she could think of at the guy Taako had every plan in the universe of banging, inevitably starting a fight that lasted until the Goldcliff militia came to break it up.

That was how she found herself sitting next to Taako in an overnight holding cell, tapping a tune on her bloodied knee as Taako crossed his arms over his chest and sulked. The militia man who locked them up for the night took all of their possessions, including the giant wizard hat he usually sported. There was nothing to hide the purple shiner on his cheek bone save for the sparse curtain his uneven lime green hair made over his face.

She tapped through the rhythm of another song before he kicked her shin just hard enough to make the bruise there spark in pain. She yelped. “What was that for?”

“I’m not doing another night in jail,” Taako said. “We’re breaking out of here.”

“What?” she exclaimed. Then: “You’ve been arrested?”

“Ren, focus.”

“I am. Breaking out is stupid. We’re not doing it.”

“It’s not stupid.”

She gestured to the other side of the bars. “A guard is right there. He can hear everything.”

“No he can’t,” Taako said.

“Yes I can,” the guard said.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Taako said, as if that was obvious.

A door on the other end of the hallway slammed open, and a pair of official sounding boots made rhythmic strides in their direction. An older man in the finest militia garb stood before them, hands clasped behind his back. The guard in front of their cell jumped into a rapt salute. “Captain, sir,” he barked.

“These two are being released on bail,” the captain said.

Ren made a questioning noise as Taako leaned forward, wrapping his hands around the bars. “By who?”

They never got their answer. When new pairs of handcuffs were clicked around their wrists, they knew something fishy was up. Taako grumbled but kept silent, trying to seem uninterested as he watched a plain looking guy collect their box of personal belongings. He wasn’t a part of the militia, but he took orders from the captain like a dog craving a bone. The rest of the militia members paid no attention to him as he scrambled to get everything put together. A strange device made of a headband that rested a cushion over each ear sat on his head. He held out two more for them to wear.

“What are they?” Ren asked.

“Have you, like, never seen a pair of headphones before?” Taako asked. He bent over, getting his head right into the lackey’s face. “Slip them on, dude. Might as well get this over with.”

The headphones only played a soothing song, but Taako didn’t seem to care. He still complained and jabbed when the lackey and the captain escorted them both out of the office and into a battlewagon waiting for them out front. “So where are you going to dump us?” Taako asked, scooching forward so that he can talk to the two men in the front seats. “Because I don’t really do the whole digging thing, even if it’s my own grave.”

“We’re not going to kill you,” the captain said as the lackey turned on the engine and started the wagon down the midnight streets of Goldcliff.

“Wow. Could’ve fooled me.” Taako sat back, cuffed hands on his lap. He looked at Ren. “Hey. I think we might actually get through this alive.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, but we might have to suck one of their dicks.”

Ren snorted, leaning into her seat. “I call dibs on the young one.”

“Uh, I think sucking some old guy’s dick would be a wonderful moment of, uh, character development for you. Flesh you out. Take one for the team and all that.”

The captain cleared his throat. “You know we can both hear you,” he said, craning his neck to look back at them. The lackey, to his credit, seemed more amused than embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

“Well, do you have a preference whose dick we suck?” Ren demanded.

Taako barked a laugh. “Speak now or forever hold your nut.”

The captain pinched the bridge of his nose while he groaned.

Too soon they were stopping at the back entrance of a small shop—the bottom floors dark while the upper story windows glowed a welcoming orange. As they were helped out of the battlewagon, another light turned on and the backdoor opened, revealing a small gnome and a tall orc.

“Love the diversity,” Taako said as the lackey grabbed the box filled with personal belongings. “Got all of the key heights represented.”

The orc woman chuckled. “Wow. You’re chipper for having the snot beaten out of you.”

Whatever response Taako could have had to that was interrupted by the captain marching past them. “Careful, Killian. Those two have mastered the art of immature bantering.”

“He’s just mad neither of us wanted to suck his dick,” Ren said.

Killian grinned. “Oh, yeah. I get that. I would be worried if you actually wanted to.”

“Oh my god,” the captain said.

“Stop being easy bait,” the gnome said.

Taako exchanged a look with Ren. He grinned. “You cats don’t seem too bad,” he said, sauntering forward as best as he could with hands cuffed. “So, like, what’s the deal here? What’s brought this ragtag team together?”

Killian smirked. “Let’s get you upstairs, then we’ll talk it out.”

Upstairs was the apartment that made their headquarters. Two more members lingered in the kitchen—one a bard who seemed spelled to forever mope around with his violin, and a drow male with long silver hair and a spider the size of a dog on his lap. Ren barely had enough time to take in his extravagant goth robes before Taako had his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I call dibs on that dick.”

Ren immediately met the drow’s eyes. “Hey,” she said. She pointed at Taako. “He wants to suck your dick.”

Taako jammed his elbow into her gut, complaining over her as the male drow brightens into a shiny smile. “Oh, I am so, so honored by your interest. Tell me, darling, what’s your name?”

Taako glared at her. “Ren, don’t you dare—”

“His name is Taako,” she says. “He’s single and ready to mingle and definitely as thirsty as he looks.”

The male drow laughed and waved a hand through the air. “Oh, you’re so funny, no? But unfortunately for you, I’m looking for something a bit more, uh, long term. Oh, Avi!” The lackey looked up from where he was dumping the box on the coffee table. “Did you see any cute boys at the station? Did you give them my frequency?”

Avi grins. “There was one cute boy, and I brought him home to you.”

“Oh, well that won’t do. This one isn’t looking for a long term.”

“God, you’re so picky.” He laughed as Brian made an offended face. “No wonder no one will date you.”

It was only when everyone was seated and headphone were confirmed to be over every ear did the captain start explaining. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re just a group of ordinary people who seek to get rid of some of the evil of the world. Have you ever heard of something called the Grand Relics?”

And he told them the story that is the experience of so many people in Faerun— waking up six years ago to a ruined world and feeling as though that shouldn’t be the case. Something had gone wrong, but no one could remember how or why. And soon afterwards, rumors of powerful weapons began to surface. The accounts of what they did and how many there were varied, but soon they were collectively known as the Grand Relics.

“We’re all people who’ve been affected by the Grand Relics,” Killian explained. “I know for a fact that the Philosopher’s Stone destroyed my home, and the Gaia Sash destroyed parts of Goldcliff a year or so ago.”

“I remember enlisting in a war,” Brian said, “but I don’t remember anything else about it. I do have burns though—” He gestured down his sleeve-covered arms, answering a question not asked. “—and I believe that the legendary Phoenix Fire Gauntlet might be the cause.”

“The headphones mitigate the effects the relics have on us,” Bane continues. “Helps us stay sane. I’m actually lucky I had them with me tonight since, well, we think you have one of them.” From the box, he pulls out Taako’s bag of holding. “It’s faint, but I’m a bit more susceptible to it than most. I can feel it in there. The thrall of some relic.”

Ren scoots forwards in her seat. “I think you’re—”

Taako pushes his cuffed hands into her, jamming her back into the cushions. “Hold on,” he said. His voice was low and grave, something Ren hadn’t heard since Refuge. “Are you just _collecting_ those things?”

“We’re trying to figure out a way to destroy them,” Bane said. “We have connections to the Miller Lab. It’s the best one in the land, and the scientists there are trying to figure out a way to take the power out of them.”

“And how do you know you haven’t escaped the thrall?” Taako demanded.

“The headphones—”

“No one is supposed to resist it. They’re designed—”

“Taako, you escaped it,” Ren said. He froze, his hand tightening into fists as he stayed stalk still. Ren leaned in closer, feeling the surprise on everyone’s faces as she explained. “I think we have one of the Grand Relics with us. I’ve been calling it the Temporal Chalice.” She swallowed, pretending not to notice how pale he’s gotten. “Taako, you resisted it and you did it without those weird head things.”

“That should be impossible,” Leon the Artificer said. “I’ve studied the Gaia Sash. The thrall on it was the most complicated magic I’ve ever seen.”

For a moment, Taako stayed still. Then: “it couldn’t give me anything I wanted.”

Bane rose from his seat, taking a few steps until he was kneeling next to Taako. “I know that this must be tough for you,” he said. “But all of us here can see that you’re a good person. If you can resist the thralls then, well, you must be the only person in Faerun who can. We need someone like you on our team.”

Taako squinted at him. “Your team.”

“We’re trying to make the world a better place. All of us are. We’d be honored if you would bring your expertise to the table.”

Bane placed a hand on his knee. Taako flinched, immediately shoving it away. “No. No. No way. Not ever.” He takes a deep breath, eyes jumping around each face in the room as if he remembered where he was. “I—no. Just no. All this is stupid. You think your fancy-shmancy headphones are the secret, but they aren’t going to last forever. It’s going to fuck up, and you’re going to hurt a lot of people.”

Ren pressed to her lips together. “Taako—”

He stood. “No. Take the stupid cup or whatever. I don’t care. I’m out.”

He made it three steps before Ren reached out and took a fistful of his skirt. He could’ve walked out of it any moment he wanted, but instead he stopped, letting his choppy hair hide his face. Ren wished he’d look down at her. She placed on a nice smile. “I think what Taako’s trying to say is that he has other things he needs to do before he can worry about some relics.”

She paused. He stayed silent.

Her smiled faltered. “We’re looking for someone,” she said. “His sister. She has the same face as him, but has dark hair. Tattoos, I think. Her first name is Lup. Maybe you’ve heard anything about her.”

“I haven’t,” Killian said hesitantly. Her gaze lingered on Taako. “Has anyone else…” When her team muttered agreements, she shrugged. “Yeah, so. I’m sorry. We’ll keep an eye out for her, though.”

Still, Taako said nothing.

“It’s late,” Bane announced. “Let’s get those handcuffs off of you two. Do you have any lodging here in the city? We have an extra bedroom if you want it.”

“ _I_ have an extra room,” Leon corrected.

The extra room only had one bed in it, but with enough lifting and spell casting, Avi and Brian managed to move one of the couches through the doorway for Ren to meditate on. She knew Taako preferred to also meditate when in an unsafe environment, but she thought that if she gave him the bed, he would be tempted to actually sleep through the night. He needed it with how quiet he was.

With how Taako yanked his belongings from the militia box, she knew he wanted for everything in the world to shut up and leave him alone. She paused half-way through the buttons down her shirt, watching as he double checked all his supplies, fiddled with the map plotting their tour of Faerun, then checked his supplies again. She felt the question rise up her throat, invading her mouth until all she had to do was part her lips and let the words spill into the air. Let her prying finally untangle the tape around the man she called her friend.

But she stayed silent. She waited until he was pulling back the sheets on the bed before saying, “If we wake up an hour earlier, we can get breakfast before hitting the road.”

He didn’t even look. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah.” She shifted on the couch cushion. She could hear the soft strings of the bard trying out a few late night songs, but she didn’t mind. They sounded like woeful lullabies. “We can get some good food and still be on the road by noon-thirty.”

“Noon-thirty.” He picked at the edge of the blanket. “Sure. Whatever. Sounds swell.”

And Ren thought it was enough.

But then, it was morning and she was waking up. She seized, gasping as she sat up on the couch. How did she fall asleep? No one could mess up meditation that bad. She was about to say something to Taako when she realized that the bed was empty. His bags were gone.

She all but fell off the couch, stumbling to open the door into the living room. Avi and Brian were at the breakfast table, talking in low voices as Avi held out a piece of bacon from the dog-sized spider. They looked at her when they heard the door open. “Have either of you seen Taako?” She couldn’t hear her own voice. Her heartbeat was too loud.

“Taako? Oh, he was just leaving when I was finished bathing,” Brian said.

Ren stared. “What.” The pounding in her chest was unbearable. “When?”

“Dawn. Dear Bryan gets hungry around then.” Brian pushed a lock of silver hair behind his pointed ear. “Did he leave without telling you goodbye?”

Ren stared down at the ground, her grip on the doorknob turning painful. “I… I don’t think so.”

Avi looked between her panic and Brian’s unease. He grinned. “Hey. I know you wanted to surprise us, but—thanks and welcome.”

Her chest ached. “What?”

“For joining us, darling,” Brian said. “Your friend said you were dying to be one of us.”

She tried to picture it: Taako, abandoning her in a sprawling city leagues away from her home, handing her off to a group of strangers he hated. She knew him the way someone knew a daydream—incoherent and wonderful. Inexact but vivid. And she knew that, even if she couldn’t see the reasons why, he would do this. Taako would abandon her the same way he abandoned the memory of a family that loved him.

Ren saved face—thanked them before retreating back into the extra room. All her stuff was still there. If she squinted, she could pretend that this was her plain room in the apartment above her saloon. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t think she had the right. So she sat on the couch and let the gravity of her situation settle upon her.

* * *

Music that rattles the space between their bones pulses through the air, matching the flashing neon lights as the crowd roars their enthusiasm. Lucretia still tries to yank her feet out of the metal binding her to the ground as Davenport keeps a wary eye between where the Wonderland elves lounge on their thrones to where their enemy team stands in a similar state of frantic confusion.

Julia has her shield in one hand and her sword in another, taking a step back so that she can hear over the music. “Guys, what do I do?” she asks. “This is sadistic.”

“I don’t think they’re going to attack us yet,” Davenport says.

“I can’t get this to…” Lucretia groans and pulls out her wand, muttering angry words under her breath as she fires a spell. The blue sparks of her magic zip over the metal before crackling, turning black as it ricochet’s up her leg. She yelps, dropping her wand as her tendons go rigid.

“Careful.” Julia scoops the wand off the ground and hands it back to her, smoothing her hand over Lucretia’s cheek and shoulder. “Istus all mighty—are you alright?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She winces, squirming as she continues to try to free her legs. “Damn it. That was supposed to be an unlocking spell.”

Up on the elevated dais. Edward throws a lazy head back as he holds up a goblet of wine. “Dear Lydia,” he says. “This is getting a bit boring. I don’t think either team is taking this game too seriously.”

Lydia hums. A wicked grin curls through her lips. “I think it’s time we raise the stakes a bit.” She rises from her throne, coming to the edge of the dais so that the spotlight can shine on her. “For this game, we’re going to need some volunteers from the audience.”

From the audience encircling the arena, beams of light arc through the air—about half a hundred. They strike the ground like meteors, bluish smoke wafting into the air as humanoid figures rise from the wreckage. “A quick rule change—now we’re going to have some new participants playing alongside you guys. If any of them hit either button, then you both will lose and face the penalty.” She flicks her half curtain of hair. “I suggest you protect your button very carefully.”

The humanoid figures look like glass dolls with a body made of porcelain, faces painted into unceasing smiles. Despite their wonky, shaking walks, their satin clothes don’t move with the movement of them lurching forwards with their ball and socket joints.

Five of them are immediately on the button Julia needs to protect. She bashes her shield into one, sending it back onto the ground. She whips around, slashes one across the chest. It keeps going. Grunting, she kicks her leg out and sends it too flaying back. “Hey!” she shouts, craning to look back at Lucretia and Davenport. “Use your mag—shit!”

She lunges. One of the dolls is right at Davenport, a hand in the air as it looks ready to strike. Her sword slices clean through its arm, sending the artificial limb clanking to the ground. With a poof, the illusion on the doll wears off, revealing a wood mannequin. It’s like the ones Lucretia uses to practice her figure drawings, down to its featureless face.

But, even without a face, Julia can clearly see how it looks down at the broken joint in its shoulder socket before looking back at Davenport. A second later, Lucretia blasts it away with a well-aimed spell. It goes across the arena, strikes a doll that was about to take advantage of how little Avi knows of swords.

As soon as it’s gone, every doll she had sliced and pushed back is back on their feet, now accompanied by five more dolls trekking into their space. Julia yells as she slashes her sword through the air, curls slipping from the confines of her bandana and helmet in the process. Another doll comes too close to the button for her comfort, and she slams the side of her shield into it, sending it onto the ground. Panting, she catches her breath. On the other side of the arena, Killian isn’t fairing any better. Her skills with the crossbow are enough to hold her stance, but too many come too close to pushing their button and ending this for both teams. They’re only minutes in, and they’re overwhelmed.

Julia clenches her jaw. “Damnit.” She stabs her sword into the ground for a moment, just long enough to adjust her armor and double check the spear strapped to her back. “Lucretia, I need you to put the best barrier up you can around the button. Dav, I need cover.”

Lucretia and Davenport are almost too consumed with firing spells at the hoard of dolls to realize what she’s saying. Davenport sputters. “What? Julia, no. Don’t you dare—”

“We’re not going to be able to hold them off forever.” She pulls her sword from the ground, adjusting her grip around the familiar handle. “We gotta end this fast, or else.”

“I mean—” Lucretia stumbles over her words, racing to conceive a different plan, but a doll gets its arm around her neck, and she has to scream and wrestle it away. “Fuck!” She aims her ivory wand. Blue crystals appear in a tight circle around their button, glinting in the light. A few dolls bang glass hands on the surface, but never break through.

Seeing it, Julia sends them a reassuring look before letting her face fall stern and dangerous.

She rushes forward.

The first fifty feet is a dance to dodge and slash, worming out of the prying grasps of the dolls that can stop her. One pulls on her hair, and she whips around to slice away the offender.

“Looks like Julia is giving a shot at hitting the opposing team’s button,” Lydia says, her commentary cutting clear through the commotion of the game.

Killian hears it, getting a chance to see Julia push through the onslaught towards where she has to defend. Ren, in a moment of brilliance, points her umbrella at her button. Purple magic swirls in the air, creating a miniature storm of knives around it. She looks ready to cast something at Julia, but Avi yells when a doll knocks his sword from his hand. She turns her attention to defending not only herself, but him.

It’s just Killian and Julia.

Killian resigns herself to the conflict. She loads a few more bolts into her crossbow, aiming for where she thinks Julia is going to step next. They whiz through the air—missing Julia by a small margin. Each miss makes the furrow in Killian’s brow deep as she tries again and again to land a shot on Julia.

All the while, the floor changes colors in tiles of sickly pink, yellow, blue, and green—hitting the beat in a disorienting rhythm.

Three dolls jump onto Julia, holding her in place long enough for Killian to be sure of her aim. Julia jabs her elbow into the chin of a doll, causing it to unlock it’s hands from her arms. She throws its weight into the other two, leaving her free just in time to see the bolt heading for her face.

She lunges out of the way, rolling into the ground with more force than necessary. Her sword clatters out of her hand, and it’s only through the blessing of good training does she manage to hold her shield in front of her body to reflect the next slew of crossbow bolts sent her way. When Killian has to reload, she struggles to stand back up.

Her foot hits a green tile.

Glass jaws snap together—sharp shards digging into Julia’s calf. She howls in pain, so loud and pained that everyone has to stop and watch her try to pry it off her leg. From above, Lydia and Edward laugh. “Careful of the green tiles,” Edward says as the glass being rising further into the air, dragging Julia off her feet and into the air. “Or else you might experience the jaws of defeat.”

It’s a glass shark. On Edward’s cue, the glass shark flies into the air, spinning Julia around for a few moments before throwing her across the arena. She soars before landing with a gross thud, sliding across the tiles until her back knocks into the barrier Lucretia set up around their button.

She groans, wincing as she rolls over. Some of her armor defended her legs, but a few of the glass teeth still penetrated her skin. A dark pool of blood flows down from the wounds. “Holy shit,” Lucretia says. She charges a healing spell. “Here.”

Julia only had a moment to feel the rejuvenating powers mend her leg when a dark magic zips all over her. She screams in pain, feeling the wounds that has just healed break apart again. “Ah-ah-ah,” Lydia says. “You know the rules, Lucretia. Once you lose something in Wonderland, you can’t get it back.”

Edward’s grin is apparent over the speakers. “In Wonderland, there is no healing.”

Lucretia pales, the gravity of the words settling over it. She looks up at the dais and extends a middle finger. “Fuck off!”

Davenport squats, reaching out as far as his short arms can towards Julia. His fingers barely brush the curls of her hair. “Get up. Can you move?”

She moans, but manages a nod. “Yeah, yeah.” Using his shoulder as support, she manages to pull herself onto her feet. “Where’s Killian?”

On the other side of the arena, they see Killian exchange a few words with Avi and Ren. She hasn’t moved from her spot. Julia presses her lips together. The glass shark gave her the perfect opening to get to their button. Why hasn’t she moved?

The Wonderland elves’ commentary provides the answer. “If you ask me Lydia, I think Killian might be regretting giving up her color vision.”

Lydia’s laugh pops like soda bubbles. “It’s just the price of getting a chance to win your heart’s desire at Wonderland.”

“Okay," Davenport says. "We have an advantage.”

“But if she’s always defending the button,” Lucretia says. “There won’t be an opening for you to hit it.”

Julia sways on her feet, bearing all her weight into Davenport as she tries to catch her breath. “Yeah, yeah. I just—” She puts too much pressure on her bad leg and hisses. “Fuck!”

“We should go on the defensive,” Davenport says.

“We can’t. We have to give it a try.” Taking a deep breath, she pulls the spear off her back and uses it as a staff to keep herself upright. “Dav, give me cover. Lucretia, defend the button.”

He pulls himself straight and professional, gearing up his wand for a spell. His maroon magic spills outwards, fading into the air as the illusion of a fog cover settles over the arena. Julia nods a thanks, turns her eyes towards where the tiles shift color on the ground, and rushes forward once again.

Even though her line of sight is also ruined by the thick gray cover, she manages to make it through the dolls well enough, stabbing his spear through their chest before swinging it in a large circle to bat others away. She doesn’t have to worry about one of Killian’s bolts coming towards her until she can make out the orc’s large shape a few feet away.

And, of course, the moment she sees Killian, Killian sees her.

“Now!” Killian shouts.

Purple sparks jump through the air, a contest of wills that Ren wins. Davenport’s illusion dissipates. A second later, a bolt shoots through the air. Julia is too slow this time to dodge, and the bolt nicks the side of her shield before lodging into her upper thigh. She gasps, falling to a kneel as the last of the fog disappears.

Davenport, from his end of the arena, sees how Killian loads a new bolt into her crossbow, and fires off a shot of _magic missile_ _._ With such a far distance between them, it weakens enough that when it strikes Killian, it only launches her back a few steps.

“Balance!” Avi shouts, watching the tiles change color beneath her. She manages to hop on one foot, keeping herself solidly on a lone piece of yellow surrounded by green. Then, when the song hits a new beat: “Left foot, about three feet back.”

Her left foot hits the floor, finding a pink square safe to stand on.

Davenport launches a few more bolts of magic, but each one is met by a similar round Ren sends to meet them. Julia sways back to her feet, spying where her sword lays abandoned on the ground. She takes her spear in hand and throws it—letting Killian’s attention turn to how to safely dodge it while she gets an opportunity to hop over the green tiles and grab her sword.

Killian manages to not only dodge the spear, but also claim it as her own, swinging the unfamiliar weight around before jabbing it towards Julia. The human shouts, rolling out of the weapon’s superior range. She looks down at her sword, a swear on her lips as she realizes her mistake. The spear’s pointed tip limits the kind of damaging moves Killian can make, but it’s large enough to prevent Julia from getting close enough to use her sword.

A rookie mistake.

Julia holds her shield up, giving herself one moment longer to figure out a plan. She must get the spear out of the equation just long enough to stick her hand through the storm of knives and hit the button. Of course, doing that will tear her flesh to shreds. An idea pops into her brain, and in a second she starts undoing the straps binding her shield to her forearm.

“Eat this!” She chucks her shield, a move so out of nowhere that it sets Killian off kilter.

Taking advantage, Julia skips over a green tile, racing behind the button, towards Ren and Avi. And, sure enough, Killian swipes the spear through the air and into the storm of knives. The cascade of blades tear through the wood staff as though it was nothing more than a twig. The bladed end falls to the ground, useless. Julia lunges forward, the tip of her sword aimed straight for Killian.

Killian jerks her crossbow, catching the blade on the metal machinery. The two scrap against each other with a screeching noise, Julia and Killian glare at each other as they bear their weights into each other. Killian’s arms shake while Julia quacks on her bad leg.

Julia clenches her jaw, then lets go of her sword. It catches on the metal of Killian’s crossbow for a moment before clattering to the ground.

Without a force pushing against her, Killian stumbles a step forward, her foot landing on a green tile.

Julia springs back as the glass jaws chomp on Killian’s leg, the transparent shark rising through the air. Edward and Lydia’s gleeful cackles echo through the air as Killian is spun around before being tossed in the air. She heads straight for where Avi’s trapped, sure to crush the man upon impact if not for the last minute spell Ren launches. It hits Killian, bolstering her through the air as she lands far behind them, crashing into the stands where the audience spectates.

The crowd goes wild.

Julia screams as a spell hits her back, sending her falling onto the ground. The flat of her sword blade digs into her stomach, and she manages to wrestle the hilt into her hands so that she can roll over and catch the next purple spell flung her way before it can hit her. More and more of her curls fall out from her red bandana, curtaining her face as Ren points her umbrella and glares. A spell charges at the tip.

Maroon magic all the way from where Davenport is trapped careens towards them, but not at Ren. This time, it heads straight for Avi. Ren swears, quickly canceling the spell she first started on to get something to defend him. Julia surges to her feet, taking three large steps towards the drow. She jams the butt of her sword into Ren’s head, just enough to make her cry out and release the umbrella.

For a second, Julia allows herself a grin. Every obstacle in her way, gone.

She turns back to the button, readying to stick her sword through the storm of knives and ending this once and for all.

A snap as a cord is cut, and a piano plummets from the ceiling. Julia doesn’t even get a moment to realize what is about to happen when the ebony baby grand crashes into her, the cords playing a comical note on impact.

“Julia!” Lucretia screams, frantic as she tries to pry her legs free.

“Oops!” Edward giggles as Avi shouts and Ren holds her hands over her mouth in horror. “Looks like Julia just experienced some _bad_ _luck_.”

“Julia!” Davenport shouts. Her arm stretches out from under the rumble—the only part of her that escaped—and her hand opens and closes as she searches the ground for anything to help. A molecule of relief settles over him. She’s still alive, at least.

Up in the stands, Killian recovers. She cries out when she stands on her injured leg before quickly biting it back. She exhales through the nose, fighting through the pain, before breaking into the sprint. She pushes aside audience members, uncaring of whether she hurts them or not, as she follows the curve until she’s as close to the Davenport and Lucretia’s button as she can get.

Then, with a running start, she leaps through the air—legs outstretched before her foot hits the chest of one of the dolls. It crashes onto the ground, and she’s careful to keep her legs on its magicked body. She eyes the next closest doll and kicks her leg out, knocking it over so that she can jump onto it as well. She does this again and again, making strides as she gets closer and closer to the barrier protecting the button.

Both Davenport and Lucretia are too consumed with their attempts to break free and help Julia to really register how close she’s getting. It’s not until she’s right up against the barrier does Lucretia notice. “Shit!” On impulse, she fires off a giant beam of _scorching ray_.

Killian takes a risk and puts her foot on the ground. It's on a blue tile. She pushes the doll she stands on to the side so that the barrier is between her and Lucretia. The beam curves and hits the blue crystal. The barrier cracks.

Killian yells as she slams her fist into it once, then twice. At the third time, it shatters into tiny pieces. Without hesitation, she slams her hand onto the button.

The lights in the arena change, shifting to a victorious blue as yellow spotlights land on all the players.

Lines of black magic zap around Lucretia and Davenport without harm. For a haunting moment, nothing happened.

Then a pain unlike any other shoots through them. It's hot-- piercing deep into the fibers of their flesh before intensifying into whitehot agony. They both scream, body going rigid as if electrified.

Killian jerks her hand away from the button, face falling in horror as she watches. “Oh my god,” she says, watching as the electrification continues on. “Oh god, oh god. I—”

“Congratulations to Killian for winning the Zap Zone!” Both Lydia and Edward are on either side of her, leaning into her burly arms as they watch. A moment later, the electrification stops, and both Davenport and Lucretia fall onto their knees.

They gasp for air, tears falling from Davenport’s eyes as he clutches a hand to his old heart. Tremors travel down every single one of Lucretia’s limbs, as if there’s still bits of magic causing her some lingering harm. When the metal restraints leave their feet, they don't notice.

“That was quite the challenge wasn’t it?” Edward says.

“But due to your skill, you managed to win in the end,” Lydia finishes. They both gesture to their dais where a sign now hangs in the air. Flashing lights frame a black board, where little caricatures of each team is depicted. Beneath Avi, Killian, and Ren is a single tally. “Now it’s time to for you to gain your reward.”

When the room shifts this time, Davenport is too exhausted to take note how it happens. But now the button that damned them is gone and they’re right by the piano crushing Julia. A curtain cuts through the center of the room, separating them from the others. After a moment, he remembers himself and picks his wand off the ground. With a swish and flick, his magic wraps around the piano, lifting it in the air a few feet before setting it down to the side. Julia lays on her stomach, face turned away from him as she stays prone. No one moves.

Davenport clears his throat, fighting through the pain coursing through his body. It’s a constant agony, as if he’s about to break at any given moment. “Julia? Can you hear me?”

She raises her arm and gives a solid thumb’s up. She says something that is muffled, before groaning. She braces her hands on the ground before pushing herself up. She looks bad. She’s cut up and scratched on every part of her skin, and what isn’t is an ugly purple bruise. She barely manages to sit herself up before having to turn to the side and vomit. A thick wad of blood joins the pool by her leg, and she can only hack as the last bits of it leave her.

“You should be dead right now,” Lucretia says, soft as she continues to tremble.

“Well, _shit_.” Her voice is hoarse, cracking with every breath. “I fucking feel like death.”

“If it’s any comfort,” Davenport says. “I feel about half dead right now.”

Julia snorts, but it turns into a wheeze as another part of her body flares in pain.

“I hope I didn’t keep any of you waiting for too long.” This time, it’s only Lydia standing before them. Her tacky shoulder pads make her an intimidating picture as she flips her hair and smiles into the microphone, playing it up for the cheering crowd. “It’s so sad to see such valiant efforts go to waste, but that’s just part of the Wonderland experience. You have to sacrifice something in order to earn your reward. And this time, you didn’t quite have enough to get by, so a punishment is in order.”

The Wheel of Sacrifice appears before them, but this time six lights glow above it.

“This time, in order to continue, you’re going to have to sacrifice _twice_ as much.”

* * *

Night rests heavy on Goldcliff, yet no one really goes to sleep. In the affluent parts of the city, there are operas to be had and good wine to be spilled. But down the river, where the cool stream turns into a trader’s canal, the streets are filled with only those who don’t fear muggers in the shadows or the drunks sleeping on the sidewalk. Even then, everyone turns their eyes away from the militia battlewagon patrolling the neighborhood, looking for anyone who looks like trouble.

Even without her signature mask, Sloane looks like a problem. No amount of a work dress code can slap the dirty glare from her eyes, or erase the callouses padding her hands. She tries to dress up for this shitty bar, wearing a nose piercing with a chain that connects to a gold hair piece. It's the fanciest thing she owns, and the complex gold work matches the beautiful henna tattoos decorating the golden skin of her forearms. Of course, that’s what catches the eye of this sleaze trying to peg her attention.

“Where else do they go?” he asks, his large hand rest on her wrist before traveling upwards. He’s an elf, old enough that his hair has grayed and his skin wrinkled. He reeks of the beers she’s been placing on his table, long wafts of the stench hitting her nose like a toxic fume.

Sloane glares, then wordlessly jerks her arm away. She turns to the next table she has to wipe down for the night, but the sleaze just jumps to his drunken feet and sling an arm over her shoulder. “C’mon,” he wheezes. “Don’t be so cold, baby. I just wanna get to know you.”

Her nails are short from her work with battlewagons, yet the blunt tips dig into the heel of her palm. She can feel her boss’s eyes watch her from the other side of the bar, critiquing every move for a reason to fire the punk girl with a bad record with the militia. Even though her nails are nowhere near sharp enough, Sloane swears that her feels her skin break until blood leaks into her palms. She takes a deep breath, and forced herself to ignore his pungent stench and dirty hands.

If she follows the rules, she doesn’t get hurt. She knows that. But Sloane has no power and she hates it.

Once the bar closes, Sloane has scarce a second to make sure her knife is safe where she can grab it when she notices a small, but familiar figure coming out of a different bar across the street. Hurley is a halfling woman, barely the height of Sloane’s waist. Her hair is cut short to her scalp, but the ginger strands catch the lamplight and make her glow. They catch eyes together, and for a moment Hurley looks like she’s been caught.

Then she smiles and waves. “Want company?”

Sloane has no power, but the Raven does. She’s a thief who steals from those who won’t miss a couple hundred gold and funds her own life. The Raven is feared and respected on the streets and the dusty tracks surrounding the desert around Goldcliff. But she’s only half of a whole.

Hurley is the Ram. She’s smarter than Sloane, maybe even more cunning when she wants to be. But her thin lips grant kindness into the world even when a place like Goldcliff is far from deserving. It’s as if she doesn’t care that she’s also had to bend and shape herself to the system, learning how to be one of the cogs without making anyone else want to knock her down.

“Your shift go okay?” Hurley says as they walk.

“Fine enough,” Sloane replies, hands buried in her pockets. “Got enough silver to eat.”

Hurley’s laugh is light, albeit a little forced. “Well, hey. At least that’s something.”

Sloane feels her face burn and she focuses on how the sidewalk moves under her feet. Up until a month ago, Hurley would spend her nights off at the bar with Sloane, a little beacon of light in a drudge of thankless work. They could laugh at every sleaze coming in their direction and exchange knowing smiles when Hurley paid for her next round. But there were rules there that Sloane didn’t see until she broke them—as they chaperoned each other back to the warehouse Sloane calls home, she grabbed Hurley’s arm and pulled her into a long kiss.

The worst part is that Hurley doesn’t hate her. In fact, she just hasn’t said anything. They play at being just partners and maybe friends, pretending that Sloane didn’t step where she shouldn’t have. It was driving her insane.

Hurley took a deep breath of the early autumn air. “Hey, so there was this Hammerhead punk who wouldn’t shut his mouth.”

“Where?”

“The bar. The one I was at.”

“Okay.”

“He was gloating to some folks that they got some secret weapon they’re going to use at the next race. A _grand relic.”_ She makes quotes in the air. “Yeah, so. Sounds bogus, right?”

Sloane shrugs. “Yeah, totally.”

She takes a deep breath. “Actually, no. I think we should be concerned about it.” A surge of bravo fills her up. “I mean, it could be all talk, but if it’s not then we’re going to be in serious trouble the next race. We have to strategize. Figure out what it is and pull the rug out from under them.”

She looks up at Sloane, as if she expects a certain response. Sloane just looks back down at her, blinking owlishly as she tries to figure out _what_ she’s supposed to say next. In the end, Hurley just makes her grin stronger. “I don’t get me wrong—I’m definitely not saying the Hammerheads need to be worried about being robbed.”

At that, Sloane springs to life. “Uh, hold on. Say what?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Hurley says, the picture of innocence.

“No, I mean—” Sloane groans. Hurley has never approved of Sloane’s more criminal past times, but she’s also the product of Goldcliff’s rough streets. As long as neither of them mentions it, Hurley can never get in trouble for aiding a known thief. “What the hell, Lee?”

“What?”

“Don’t _what_ me! You heard yourself.”

They’re nearing the warehouse. It’s smaller than the majority of the silver buildings lining the canal, but the rent is manageable. Hurley pretends to think over everything she just said while Sloane fishes through her pockets for her keys. Only when Sloane sticks the key into the lock does Hurley finally speaks up. “Look, it’s just—I don’t know. You’ve been kinda distant lately. And, like, I get it but…” She shrugs. “I just wanna do good on the track this weekend. Fair?”

Sloane pauses. Was that a rejection? Is this even about that stupid kiss in the first place, or is she just looking for an answer where there is none? Because maybe, in the grand scheme of it all, Hurley doesn’t care about her. Does any of that even matter when she can’t do anything to change it?

Sloane swallows. “Fair.”

Hurley smiles. “See you tomorrow.”

And she leaves, not realizing how long Sloane’s going to agonize over every choice of word, every shift of the eye. Sloane groans and bangs her head on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest with you guys, both the Taako and Ren scene and the fight section were super easy to write. It's the Sloane and Hurley sequence that gave me the most trouble. I'll give you guys a basic explanation as to why their introductions kept getting pushed back in my extended notes, but just know that I meant to introduce them all the way back in chapter 10 until some problems arised. There will be more of them, but for now you're just going to have to deal with whatever the heck that just was. Sorry!
> 
> So if you want to see more notes on what the heck happened this chapter and get a preview for the next one, go ahead and click here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/175388649661/northern-migration-chapter-16-note-preview
> 
> And thank you to everyone and anyone who's stopped by this story and shown it a little bit of love, whether that's a comment or kudos or even just a smile. I really do appreciate everything you guys have done for me and I can only pray that I can continue giving you guys a story that you're going to love. Thank you, thank you, thank you! <3 XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX


	17. In Which Lucretia Puts a Ring on It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you don't do well in Wonderland, you have to anticipate having to face certain punishments. Only then will you step closer to the reward you seek.

There was once a girl named Ren who was abandoned by a boy named Taako. She didn’t try to look for him. There was no point in searching for someone who didn’t want to be found.

She told herself every day that this was going to be the day she packed her stuff and returned to Refuge, but by the time she ended her meditation and did her morning stretches, she decided that one more day in Goldclifff wouldn’t hurt. She did this over and over again until she was joining Killian and Brian on an adventure to uncover more about a potential Grand Relic. She noted the flutter of excitement in her gut and at the side of the room she shared with Killian and realized that she had made the decision to stay a long time ago, even without her realizing it.

And so, three years past as they hunted down dangerous weapons. She tried to teach Avi to cook and listened to Brian’s flowery cadence. The lazy nights listening to Johann play his violin, creating stories with music notes. Afternoons with Killian, the two sharing a friendship she treasured more than anything. The years past, and she noted each one with a trickle of gratitude and happiness.

In the end, she was happy.

History repeated itself in the strangest way. They weren’t strangers meeting for the first time and there was no malleable hour ticking through the air, counting down the minutes until they started over again. Yet, on a sunny winter afternoon, Ren had been cooking dinner while Brian played with his pet spider when Leon came up the stairs. “You got a visitor,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

She turned off the stove, wiped her hands clean, then made her way down to the artificer’s store front.

And, like a moment of time that repeated in a jumping image, there was Taako. His hair was blue now, a rich color that made her eyes hurt from looking at it too long. His cloak was pushed back over his shoulder, freeing up his gloved hands so that he could observe the various magical items on sale. She froze at the bottom step, arm on the door frame as she stared at him. He turned a glass orb in his palms, looking up to give her a lofty look. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“Taako de Loop!” She slammed her hands on the counter, ignoring Leon’s sorry excuses as he scurried back up the stairs. Taako flinched, but a moment later forced the sly smirk to fall back upon his lips. She groaned. “Don’t fucking give me that look, jackass! You left me here.”

“Cheerio to you too,” Taako said.

“Taako!”

“ _Re-lax_. I get why you’re upset, but it worked out, didn’t it?” He placed the orb back on one of the shelves, pretending not to see it roll across the wood board before falling off. It shattered into a million pieces on the floor, a puff of orange magic rising from the shards. He sauntered to the counter and sprawled the upper half of his body over it. “All you wanted to do was find a good place for the cup, and we did. And, besides, hasn’t your resume gotten a lot better now since you’ve worked with Mister Dick-Un-Suck-able?”

She scowled. “Don’t pretend you know what’s best for me.”

“I’m not pretending.”

She jammed her fist down onto his face, causing him to howl and fall off the counter. The door behind her cracked open again, but this time Brian was on the other side. “Something’s got dear Leon in a frenzy, love,” he says as he peeks out. “You, uh, perhaps require a little assistance, no?”

Taako smacked his hand on the counter and pulled himself back up. “The fuck was that for?”

Brian gasped, jumping straight into the room as he clasped his hands together. “Goodness gracious me! Ah, it’s Taako. I didn’t know your friend was visiting today!”

Ren huffed. “Yeah, me either.”

He pushed her out from behind the counter, saying, “I’ll finish dinner, no? You go off and be a young bird in flight.” He knocked on the register and it dinged open. “Here, here.” He took a handful of gold pieces and shoved it into her palms. “Leon won’t mind. Go and get dinner and reconnect with a dear friend.”

Taako propped his hand on his hip, trying to smile in a way that told the world that he was still in control. His face was red from her punch. “Dinner sounds _excellent.”_

Forty minutes later, she found herself sitting at an outdoor table at some reasonably priced establishment. They didn’t say anything to each other on the way over—Taako suddenly wordless as he refused to make eye contact—and they barely spoke beyond giving their orders to a waiter. Ren was on their third dinner roll, about to use up the last of the butter, when Taako broke the silence. “So I guess you’re doing better here than you were in Refuge.”

She didn’t bother to look at him. “I was happy in Refuge.”

“You haven’t gone back.”

“Maybe I’m just like you,” she spat. “It takes me a few years to realize there’s some place I need to be.”

He fidgeted, suddenly very interested in where their waitress was. “This polenta better be seasoned.”

She sighed. “Believe it or not, but you’re not some sort of enigma no one can figure out. You don’t do emotions just like you never take responsibility for having them.” He started to say something, but she cut it off. “No, shut it. I’m going to talk and you’re going to take it. No amount of me being pissed is ever going to fix whatever got you constipated up the wazoo. I’m never going to get you to spit out whatever twisted logic it took for you to just get up and walk away. And that’s fine. Whatever. Just tell me what the hell you’re doing back here so that I can turn you down and get some kind of pleasure in telling you to fuck off.”

He swallowed, taking his glass of wine in hand to sip at it idly. She waited for him to try his usual antics, but he stayed quiet. She had half the mind to grab her cloak and leave when the waitress came back with their meals. So she stayed, took her fork, and started eating.

Taako didn’t touch his food. He looked everywhere but her face before letting his eyes dissect each person walking by the little patio. Even though it was early in the evening, the sky was a rich orange. Winter never touched the air of Goldcliff, but it left its imprint in the sky.

Taako took a deep breath and set his wine glass aside. “When we, uh, joined up together, we agreed that I would find Lup and you would hide the cup. You did that, didn’t you? So why would you want to keep eating road jerky and sleeping in sketchy inn beds?”

She arched a brow. “You thought that I didn’t want to travel with you anymore.”

“Precisely.”

“You know, that almost checks out except I was literally talking about how I wanted to get breakfast.”

Taako paused. “That is, uh. That’s a point.”

She leaned back and huffed. “So that’s the game we’re going to be playing right now. You make excuses and I turn them down.”

He pressed his lips together, brows furrowed. “You know, yeah. It doesn’t make sense. But fuck it. That was what was going through the old noggin.” He rocked his knuckles on his temple. “Things have been a little screwy up in here for a lifetime now, Ren. You want some emotions from me? Fine. I’m not from here. I’m not from New Elfington or whatever. I’m not even from Faerun. I’m from this little island off the coast of some kingdom that’s actually hundreds of worlds away from here. And everything’s the same, but fuck if it ain’t polar opposites. I had a family. We were all the only people we had, and the moment Lup fucked off and disappeared, they turned their backs on her. Excuse me if I don’t trust anyone to stick around for longer than I can throw em.”

He threw his hands into the air before crossing his arms tight against his chest. “Maybe it’ll just help my pride a bit if I can just chuck someone out before they can chuck me. So, there. That’s the deets. That’s what’s been going on with me. And you know what? I’m sorry. I can at least be _compacho_ enough with my emotions to know that much. I’m _sorry.”_

Taako sunk in his chair, lips pressed together like an angry child. His long ears pressed downwards so that they almost touch his shoulders. There’s no doubt in her mind that he was telling the truth. At least, how he saw it. Deep down, they both knew that the fallout he had over Lup's disappearance was not tha catastrophic.

But now, she had a reason for him leaving. It made sense. It was emotional.

“Taako.” He followed her from the corner of his eyes as she stood and walked over to his side of the table. She squatted so that she wasn’t looking down at him, and she placed two hands on his knees. They were shaking, but with her palms they stilled. “I’m still mad, but I can see why you did what you did. And even though I did find a life here for me, you still had no right to do it. But I think you already know that.” She didn't smile. She couldn't quite believe that words coming from her mouth. “I still furious. But I forgive you.”

He gawked at her, eyes so wide that they seem to take up most of his face. “You—I mean, yeah. Sure. Of course you do.”

She shook her head, giving his knees once last pat before returning to her chair. She started eating again. He watched her for a moment before finally taking his fork and joining her.

Once their plates were cleared and the check had been dropped off, Ren balanced her chin on her hands and said, “So dramatic feeling seshes aren’t really your groove. What really brought you back here?”

“Glad you brought that up because I couldn’t find a way to mention it without seeming like an asshole.” He set the check aside, and Ren could see weird symbols drawn in pen at where the tip should be. “I think I might know where Lup is.”

“Taako, that’s fantastic—”

“Think, not know. There’s a catch.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a blue enveloped covered in a gaudy gold design. It sparkled under the last rays of the sunlight as he opened the letter and pulled out the poster. Depicted is an image of what Ren presumes is Lup, looking serious as she glares at an unseen target.

Ornate script stated: _come to Wonderland for a chance to rescue the magnificent Lup! Barry loves her! Lucretia searches for her! Greg owes her fifteen dollars!_

“I got handed a version of this a year ago. It didn’t have anything with Lup on it until the third or fourth one someone slipped on me. I figured it was just a trap or something, but then they started getting more specific.” He leaned forward and tapped his finger on the last line. “Greg Grimaldis. They have no reason to know anything about that guy.”

“I’ve never heard of this place before,” Ren said. “I mean. It seems like a trap.”

“Oh, it’s definitely the biggest trap to have ever trapped. I’m not stupid enough to go in there alone.”

“You want me to go with you.”

“Exactly. They wouldn’t be able to handle two wizards like us.”

She pressed her lips together, thinking. “Do you really think she’s in there?”

“Maybe. Even if she’s not, if they have information on Greg Grimaldis of all things then…” He made a face. “It’s bad for more than just me.”

Ren sighed. Bane had a possible lead on a possible relic called the Icarus Wings right now. She had half the thought that Killian was going to want both of their practical magic users on board for it, but she knew there wasn’t even a question. “I told you I’ll help you find Lup,” she said. “I’m not going to go back on that now.”

Taako grinned, taking his pen in hand as he starts to recalculate the tip. He crossed out more numbers than he sumed. “Excellent. Wonderland won’t know what hit them.”

“ _Mmhmm_.” Ren pointed at the check. “Slide that right over, whiz. I hate watching you struggle.” He shrugged and pushed it towards her. She immediately angled the piece of paper so that he could see it and started writing out numbers. “Pay attention. I’m gonna teach you how to get a tip.”

Taako started to say something, but stopped himself.

He paid attention as she scratched out the simple math for him to see.

* * *

Six bulbs gleam over the Wheel of Sacrifice.

“You’re kidding!” Davenport exclaims, struggling to his uncertain feet. Pain radiates through his limbs, bouncing back to his chest like a soundwave. For a split moment, he’s sure he’s about to throw up, but then he swallows it back and forces it his brain to focus on everything but what his body’s feeling. He squints at the lights, as if his bad vision will clear and it will just all be a misunderstanding. “That’s nuts!”

Lydia rolls her shoulders, humming a note as she sways in a little dance. “Wonderland is all about giving up the things you don’t need in order to get the things you want,” she says. “If you don’t think there’s anything else to give up, you’re free to leave. But the Animus Bell will go to those, _mmm_ , other people by default. And aren’t you on some sort of god given mission?” She turns away. “But what do I know? If you want to leave, then I’ll point you to the door.”

“Captain,” Lucretia says. She kneels next to Julia, sorting through her bag for her mundane medical kit. Even if she can’t heal, she can at least stop the bleeding. “We're fucked.”

“Totally, but we gotta keep going.” Julia bites back a groan as she turns herself over, able to face the wheel. “That whole last round was on me and I messed up. You both have a hundred years more experience that any of those guys. It has—” She coughs, a little spurt of blood dripping down her chin. “It has to get better.”

“We can only pray,” Davenport says. “But we still have six spins.”

“That’s two each,” Julia says.

“Or it’s three for Davenport and me, and none for you.” Lucretia starts unspooling a roll of white bandages. “Julia, you’re barely alive right now. We can’t make you do that.”

Julia huffs. “Well, you’ve two options. You fix me up and let me have my share, or I get up right now, march over there, and spin as many times as I can before I die from blood loss.”

Lucretia scowls. “I will not hesitate to cast _hold person_ on you.”

“Julia, we’ll see how you’re feeling in a bit. If you’re fine, you can go last.” Davenport ignores how Lucretia mutters under her breath, focusing on adjusting his red uniform so that he can have some semblance of dignity. He combs his fingers through his hair, adjusts his mustache, then marches over to the wheel. “Alright, Lydia. I’m ready.”

She grins, large and broad like a Cheshire cat. “And here I was thinking you were going to quit on me. You’re very noble, captain.”

He doesn’t respond, merely taking the wheel in hand and giving it a hearty push.

The wheel clicks and clacks as it spins, the colors shifting as an optical illusion before it slows to a stop. Instinctively, he steps forward, trying to make out the symbol through his blurry vision.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Lydia says. “Looks like you landed on eye once again.”

“Damnit!” Davenport groans.

“My brother already made you far-sighted, didn’t he. That was very nice of him, especially since now we’re going to have to advance to something a bit more… unpleasant.” From up on her stage, she squats as if that’ll make her any way closer to his height. “If you accept this sacrifice, Captain Davenport, you will have to give up one of your eyes.”

He folds his arms over his chest, swallowing back the dread swelling through his gut. “I refuse.”

“Don’t be so hasty now,” Lydia says. “It’ll be painless. Just poof! And it’s gone. Surely you’ll want to take that instead of risking a penalty now, wouldn’t you?”

He hesitates.

“Dav,” Lucretia says, pausing in her mending. Her hands are soaked in blood. “You’re our pilot. You could make do with glasses for flying the ship, but one eye? That’s too much.”

“I know,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “Listen. You know how to fly the _Starblaster._ So does Magnus and Barry. And, if we ever find her, Lup. I’ll go from piloting the old girl to being her full time engineer. It’ll be fine.” He looks at Lydia. “You win. Take my eye.”

She smiles. “Which one?”

Now he’s just exasperated. “I don’t know. The left? Whatever works.”

He hears a popping noise, and then half of his vision is gone. He places a hand on his face, his fingers finding a sunken hole where his eye used to be. His heart hammers in his chest. “Oh gods,” he mutters. He feels shaky, and a part of himself separate from the rest realizes that he’s on the verge of losing it.

“Davenport?” Lucretia says somewhere behind him.

He closes his remaining eye, taking a moment to calm. His voice still quivers when he says, “I’m fine, Lucretia. It’s just a little unnerving.”

There are five lights above the wheel remaining.

Without any remaining grandeur, he tugs on the wheel again. He doesn’t bother focusing on the colors or symbols until he hears Lydia’s voice ring out: “Personally, I think brain is quite the elegant option. There’s so many ways we can hurt you…” She taps a finger on her sharp chin, thinking. “You’re not from around here, aren’t you? You’re from a place you can’t ever go home to.”

Davenport glares.

“I see. Deep down, you think you will one day. Well, if you accept this sacrifice, you will forget your home. You’ll remember the things that happened there—I won’t touch anything like that—but you’ll forget where they happened.” Lucretia must have opened her mouth to speak up since Lydia holds up her hand. “People can tell you what it is and anything about it, it’ll never stick. It’ll just be a blank spot in your memories. You’ll have the who, what, and when but not the where.”

His hands are tight fists, knuckles a ghost white as his nails cut into his palm. She wants to use the Animus Bell to destroy his bonds to Tusolia—his home, somewhere the multiverse, swallowed a hundred dimensions ago by the Hunger. He wants to believe that it’s possible to mend them back together again, without or without the bell, but he’s not sure the limits of bond science. He built the only engine in existence that operates solely on bonds and he hardly understands how it works himself.

It feels like hours drag by as he waits for Lucretia and Julia to tell him not to do it, to take the penalty and keep this little part of himself, but it never comes. Maybe they do say it, but he’s too wrapped up in his own little head to hear it.

“We don’t have all day,” Lydia says.

“Fine.” He spits it out, grinding his teeth together. “You win. Take it.”

Lydia doesn’t tell him when she does it. The fifth light above the wheel simply turns off.

He can’t remember anything about...

He recalls his family, his service in the navy, and the years he dedicated at the Institute to get his mission going. But where did that all happen? It was someplace special, so special that he can’t ever go back to it. And he can’t even remember its name.

He punches the wheel. Agony jolts through his tired bones. He shouts in pain. “Damnit!”

Lydia starts scolding him in that playful way of hers and Lucretia is somewhere behind him demanding to know if he’s alright. He groans and peels his hand away, grimacing at his bruised knuckles. “I’m fine,” he says, though he’s not sure if he’s answering a question or not. Without looking at anyone, he leaves the wheel to stand a respectable distance from where Julia’s on the ground. “I’m fine. Just give me a moment.”

A pause.

“Who’s next?” Lydia says.

Lucretia looks between where Davenport stands, glaring at the floor, and at the bandage she’s finishing up tying around Julia’s leg. Unease hums under her skin as she passes Julia more bandages and asks her to dress the rest of her wounds herself. “Okay. Guess I’ll go.”

She stands with her back straight, chin tilted upwards with a kind of regality that can make even the richest of kings humble. A slender hand finds the wheel and she spins it. It lands on a drawing of a backpack.

“With this sacrifice, you’ll have to give up one of the items that you have on hand,” Lydia explains. Again, she pretends to think about it for a moment. “I don’t think you’re going to miss that journal in your bag too much. It seems a little heavy to be carrying around all the time.”

Lucretia steps away from the wheel, if only so that she can get to her bag by Julia’s side. She finds the blue-bound book immediately, pulling it out as to get a good look at its pages. It’s all of her efforts to find Lup and Taako, organized in one place. There’s the sketches she would show people and her map illustrating all the places they could be.

She doesn’t want to give it up.

Julia smooths a bandage over her arm, studying the look on her friend’s face. “You have photographic memory.”

Lucretia looks down at her and smiles. She turns back to the elf and holds out the journal. “Fine. Take it.”

It disappears from her hands, as if never existing.

Three lights remain.

When Lucretia pulls on the wheel again, it manages to spin and spin to only land on backpack again. “Oooh, I love it when this happens,” Lydia says. “It means that I can always go back to that idea that got vetoed at the last second. This time, Lucretia, you will need to give up your med kit.”

“What!” Lucretia exclaims.

Lydia waves a hand in the air, as if she can swat away the objections. “The no healing in Wonderland policy doesn’t cover pedestrian medicine, but it’s still a valuable asset. If you want to continue on, you’re going to have to take a risk and give it up.” She smiles. “Or you can take the penalty.”

“Lucretia.” She turns to see Davenport giving her a hard look. “I’m sorry, but we need your kit.”

“Let her decide for herself,” Lydia says.

“No, he’s right.” Lucretia gives herself a moment to prepare. “I can’t give it up. I’ll take the penalty.”

She expects bolts of lightning, or at the very least another piano falling from the heavens. What she gets is the third light above the Wheel of Sacrifice staying on, and the fourth one flickering back to life. She groans. “Oh, fuck me running. Are you kidding—” Something comes out of her mouth, passing over her face before dissipating into the air. She stays still for a long moment, waiting for something to come from it, when she feels a hand fill her own.

Davenport is by her side, giving her a firm squeeze as he glares at the wheel. “Spin again,” he says. “I’ll take the extra one.”

“No, don’t—”

“I gave you an order and you followed through. Now let me deal with the consequences.”

“I think we’re well beyond orders now, Dav.”

“Lucretia.” He looks up at her, and she understands. If they’re going to keep doing this, he needs this. He’ll rather hide behind rank that no longer applies than put words to what he’s feeling.

She swallows. “Understand, captain.”

Lydia is talking the crowd up, getting a roaring cheer from the audience. Lucretia ignores the sound, letting it sit muffled in the background as she goes up—every step hurts, how can half health be so fucking miserable— and quickly spins the wheel. She wants to see the elf get at least a little annoyed that she’s going ahead, but Lydia smoothly draws everyone’s attention back to the sacrifice.

“Lucky you!” Lydia says. “It seems like you’ve landed on body once again! Are you willing to be a little less alive?”

Lucretia shrugs. “Hit me up.”

The fourth light turns back off, and an ache settles in her knees. She grimaces as she walks away, feeling stiff and old as the joints protest with every step. The moment she’s by Davenport’s side, he gives her a small pat before stepping up to the wheel again.

“You being such a good sport right now,” Lydia says as he spins it. “Are you some sort of masochist or something?”

It lands on a hand.

“If you got this one last round, you might have been able to get away with only sacrificing a thumb. But we are getting into the higher levels, and higher levels require bigger challenges. Captain Davenport, if you accept this sacrifice, you will have to give up one of your, well, hands.”

Lucretia runs up to him, yanking him away from the stage. They both gasp as they hurt injuries they can’t see. “I order you not to do it. That’s too much—”

He pushes her hands away. “That’s not how rank works!”

“You keep on taking the big hits,” she says. “Take the penalty. I’ll take the extra round.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” He looks at Lydia. “Deal.”

She in turn looks happier than ever. “Which one?”

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles. Now that it’s not coming from her lips, Lucretia can see what it is. Black smoke, wafting into the air from Davenport’s mouth. She watches it float upwards until disappearing completely. Meanwhile, Davenport studies his hands, no doubt trying to figure out which one should go. She knows he’s right handed, but giving up the hand on the same side as his missing eye would give him a significant weakness. He must have the same line of thought since he says, “Fine. Take my right hand.”

Much like his eye, it’s just disappears. He holds up his arm, his eyes growing wide when he sees how his wrist ends in a stump. He swears again, and to his complete oblivion, more smoke rises into the air.

Two lights remain.

“Alright, move you two.” Julia struggles to her feet, tilting this way and that as her bandaged body struggles to stay upright. “It’s my turn.”

Lucretia rushes away from the wheel, knees and every part of her protesting all the while, so that she can loop Julia’s arm around her neck. “No, don’t. You’re still kinda fucked. I’ll go for you.”

Julia frowns. “And risk losing the med kit again? Have you also lose an eye or some important memory? No way. I’m doing it.”

“How about this.” Davenport shoves what remains of his right arm into the pocket of his jacket, as if not looking at it will make the problem go away. “You spin once. If you don’t lose anything like a hand or an eye, then you go again.” She starts to say something, but he cuts her off. “Julia, you’re our fighter. You can’t be losing stuff like eyes or hands. Lucretia and I have magic. We can make that sacrifice. You can’t. You’re a strategist. Think about it.”

Julia does. By the look on her face, she still doesn’t like it but she has to agree.

Lucretia helps her limp over to the wheel. Julia takes a moment to send Lydia the meanest glare she can before taking the wheel and spinning it.

This time, it lands on a question mark.

“This is another interesting one,” Lydia says. “This time around, you get to decide what you have to sacrifice. If I think it’s enough, then that’s it. But if it’s not, then I’ll still take whatever you offered up, but you’ll have to try again until I’m pleased.”

“Wow,” Julia says before coughing. A little bit of blood splatters onto the ground. “That sounds like a bitch. How much is enough?”

“Well it changes from person to person and round to round. If I were to explain it now, wouldn’t that ruin all the fun?” One of her acrylic nails taps the side of the wheel, causing it to sway a little. “Keep in mind the things we usually ask for, though don't be afraid to get creative. Tell me when you’re ready.”

Julia looks at the symbols, pensive. “Okay, so there’s hand, brain, body, eye, bad luck, and backpack… what do you think the clock and the sword is?”

Davenport makes a face as he settles himself on the ground, exhausted. “Time and… weapons? No that would go under backpack.”

“I’m a fighter, I can’t give up any of my weapons so that’s off the table.” She stands there for a long moment, thinking. “Shit, this is something.” She gets Lucretia to help her back to where her bag lays on the ground and starts riffling through it.

After a few minutes, Lydia sits on the edge of the stage. “Hurry up, Burnsides,” she says. “The audience is getting bored.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses.” This time, when she limps back to the wheel, she has a handful of flat packages. “Okay, so I have here all of the food rations that we brought with us. On top of that, you can also take this bag of gold and the memory of my first year being a mom.”

Lydia quirks her brow. “Just the first year?”

“You heard me.”

The food rations and gold disappear from her hands. Julia refuses to even try to think about any lost memories—she remembers the noise Davenport’s fist made when he hit the wheel. She stands there, as resolute as one can when their half of their weight bears into their best friend, waiting for the verdict.

The second light stays on.

“Oooh, sorry Julia,” Lydia says with a merciless wince. “Looks like that’s just not enough. Try again.”

She stares, as if waiting for the punchline to hit. Lydia just smiles at her and admires her nails like a lioness stretching her claws. Julia forces a small laugh, ignoring how unnerved Lucretia and Davenport are. “Hold it. How was that not enough? That was big things I sacrificed there.”

“No they weren’t,” Lydia says. “Really, Julia. We’re not stupid. We know exactly what you’re trying to pull here.”

“I’m not trying to pull anything. I just want to get this over with.”

“How did your dear Captain Davenport put it?” Lydia steps off the stage, floating gently to the ground in front of Julia. Her heels make smart noises on the flashing ground, and it seems as though the music that’s always pulsing around them has reached a deaf silence. “You’re a strategist. All you want to do is find the least painful way out of this little itty bitty problem of yours. I know you didn’t need the food rations, Julia. You didn’t need any on the way over and you think you’re not going to need them on the way out. They were pointless weight. The bag of gold is a nice touch, but you don’t value gold the way others do. You can rationalize that away if it means not giving up something you care about.”

Julia’s face darkens. “I gave up my memories of—”

“Your first year being a mom.” Lydia sticks her long nail under Julia’s chin, forcing her to look up and away from her sickly sweet smile. “I know exactly how that went. You finally killed the man you regretted not killing before—and somehow still managed to feel horrible about it. As if your father’s life means nothing.” Julia starts to lash out, only to be stopped by her own injuries. Lucretia catches her easily enough, wrestling her own wand from her robe in order to point at Lydia.

All Lydia does is smirk. “And the other half of the year, you spent in a hole of self-pity because you had a child and you felt nothing for her. You resented her. If you could forget just for a little bit how horrible of a mother you are, then that’s not any skin off your teeth.”

Two blasts of magic careen towards her—from Lucretia and Davenport each. In a second, Lydia is back on the stage, her feet poised like a ballerina as she watches the colorful magic collide and break into harmless sparkles. She chuckles. “If you want to advance, you’re going to have to try again. Call me when you’re ready for your next gamble.” With that, she strikes a pose. The lights in the room flash so bright that they’re blind to her exit.

“Put me down.” Julia’s head is bowed, her helmet reflecting the barrage of color. “Lucretia, put me—” And Lucretia lowers her, waiting until her knees are on the floor before letting go. Julia falls forward, catching herself with her hands. Her arms shake. “Fuck!”

Black smoke wafts into the air.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Goddamnit!” Julia’s nails scratch on the floor. “God, I hate this!”

The smoke pours from her mouth, thick and abundant as it rises into the air. Yet, only Lucretia seems to notice it as she watches Davenport kneel in front of Julia. “She was trying to get under your skin,” he says. “You know you’re better than that.”

“I know, but _fuck!”_

He pats her arm. “I know. This place sucks—” Black smoke rises from his mouth. “But we’re not going to be stuck here forever.”

Lucretia’s brows knit together. Then, with a clinical tone: “I am miserable.” She sees the same smoke puff from her mouth. “I’m having a great time.” This time, nothing.

“Lucretia.” Davenport looks up at her with tired eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Figuring this out.” Lydia is nowhere to be found, but Lucretia knows she’s watching. The two elves have too tight on a grip of this place for them to risk leaving anyone unsupervised. “Just, uh, remember what Merle used to always say? About watching what we say?” He nods, eyes shifting around the room as he scans for a sign of whatever she’s hinting at. “It’s just, this place is so fucking awful—” Black smoke, but this time Davenport sees it too. His eyes go wide as he watches it float towards the ceiling before disappearing completely. “—that we should try being positive about the whole thing instead.”

He nods. “I think Merle’s right about one thing.” He goes to cup his other hand on Julia’s arm, before remembering that it’s nothing more than a stump now. He presses his lips for a moment. “Okay, um, Julia? We need you to get a grip now.”

When she looks at him, her eyes are burning.

“We have to watch what’s coming out of our mouths,” he says, gesturing with his stump arm to his lips. Like Lucretia, his words are precise. “We can talk about how miserable we are later.” At the damning emotion, the same smoke leaves his mouth. She holds back a gasp, realizing very quickly the situation she’s in. “We need to stay positive. Roger?”

“Roger,” she says. She looks up at the wheel. Another slew of swears rise up her throat, but she swallows it back down. They build up inside of her, eyes wide but not watering. She lowers her head, clenching her jaw tight. Harsh puffs of air push between her teeth. Bit by bit, she mends back together—still shaking, held together by a taut string.

“Guys.” Her voice is small. “I need help.”

Lucretia sits on the ground next to her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. “It’s alright,” she coos. “We’ll find a way out.”

“I don’t think I can just chose to give something up without trying to cheat my way out.” Julia takes a deep breath. “Please, I know it’s cowardly, but just. Pick for me. Tell me what to give up.”

Startled, Lucretia and Davenport waste a long beat staring.

“No, no,” Lucretia says. “We can’t do that to you.”

“Maybe we can still take the penalty,” Davenport says.

“I don’t want to do a penalty.” Julia’s hand tightens into a tight fist. “I want to look that bitch in the eye and prove her wrong. _Help_ _me_. Please.” Raising her hands to her face, she stares at her splayed fingers, turning her hands over. Light dances off her gold wedding band. Now water gathers around her eyes. “I can’t give up—”

Lucretia takes her hands. In a fluid motion, she slips the ring off. “They can’t take what you don’t have,” she says, before pulling the wedding band onto her own hand. “You’re fine. Don’t worry, you’re okay.”

She stares at her, identical trails of tears marring the sides of her dark, sweat-stain cheeks. “Then what do I give?”

Another beat.

Davenport places a hand on the armor plate strapped to her arms. “Take these off,” he says, turning her hand over. He tries to undo the buckle with one hand, but she has to come in and help him. “We better pray you know how to dodge.”

Lucretia reaches up and tugs the helmet off her head, revealing what little remains of her ponytail. Her fingers find the red bandana tying her hair back, and she dances her finger over the worm cloth before twirling a coil of hair. “Your hair,” she says. “I know you love it, but you can get rid of it.”

Julia nods, trying to help Davenport take off all her body armor. “Okay. Armor and hair. Okay.”

Lucretia looks up at the wheel, deciphering each symbol. “What kind of weapons can you use?”

“Swords, spears, bows—”

“Bows and spears,” Lucretia says. “Get rid of them.”

“But what if—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lucretia says. “They’re going. Gone.” It’s brusque. The way Julia gets paler, seems distressed is good. This is what they want. But it hurts. It hurts to be the one to do this to her.

Davenport looks up at the wheel now as well. “We should do one more thing,” he says. “Something else. Just to make sure.” He looks to the ring on Lucretia’s hand, then shakes his head. When the idea dawns on him, it makes him stand a little taller—alarmed, terrified. “Your dad is named Steven, isn’t it?”

Julia shakes her head, weeping once again. “No, Dav. Please. I can’t.”

“Then what else, Julia? You’re not going to give up Magnus or Stevie.”

“Just not him.” She seems like a windup toy, moving her head back and forth as if she can erase the idea. “Please. He’s dead. I can’t—” She looks at Lucretia. “Please.”

Lucretia’s hands shake. She wants to throw up. “Julia…” The blood in her veins is ice as she braces her hands on her friend’s shoulders. She slips them up her neck until she can cup her cheeks. She waits for a reassurance to fall from her lips, sparing both of them from this fate. But then Lucretia can only see the moment where Lydia takes everything and demands they do this again. A cycle of suffering, repeating over and over again until the things Julia holds even more dear is stripped away from her.

It’s how she felt when she was alone—beaten and scared, given the task of saving her friends and the known reality. All of it, bearing on her shoulders, for an agonizing year. She did things that year to this day she refuses to even think about.

“I’m sorry,” Lucretia says.

Julia doesn’t look at her with betrayal—and maybe, that’s worse. There’s heartbreak, but it’s not directed at her. There’s sadness and sorrow, but Lucretia’s long out of the equation. It’s just Julia and her grief. And after a moment, the cold acceptance of a woman accustomed to the price of a battle.

“Help me up,” she says, distant from the sorrow and hatred swirling in her veins. “Let’s get this over with.”

Julia shouts for Lydia. With another flash of light, Lydia twirls on the stage, striking a pose that makes the audience go wild. “That took quite the long time,” she says. “Are you ready to make your gamble?”

Julia rushes. “Take my armor and my hair. You can take my skills with bows and spears.” She pauses, faces loosening as she chokes up. “And the memory of my dad.”

Lydia pauses. Then a thin, curling smirk slides up her face. “Oh, really? That’s one hell of a sacrifice. Who helped you come up with it? It’s devilish.”

She glares. “Is it good enough?”

“You have to wonder about people like that,” Lydia continues. “if they can think about someone’s dead dad like collateral.”

Julia snarls. “Is. It. Enough.”

“It is.” Lydia smiles. “And I’ll make you a deal. I’ll take the armor and I’ll restyle your hair. The spear and bow skills you definitely don’t need anymore—I have seen you with a sword. As for your dad, well, it’ll just be a little fuzzy. You’ll remember him, but you just won’t remember anything about him. Deal?”

She doesn’t trust her own voice. She nods.

Her armor disappears. Her hands don’t remember how to hold a spear or bow. Her mass of curls disappear, cutting cropped to her head in a child’s buzz. The red bandana cut from Magnus's old uniform falls to the ground. And the memory of Steven Waxman leaves her completely.

She tries not to think about it, only picking the bandana off the ground to tie back around her head

Finally, the second light turns off.

Before anyone can stop her, Julia reaches out and grips the side of the wheel. She hears Lucretia and Davenport tell her not to, but by then she’s already pushing the wheel into motion. It’s a weak one, and she can track how the symbols shift under the arrow. It slows down and lands on the clock.

And like all the other times before, Lydia explains the rules. Julia barely hears the basic idea, that she’ll be aged a few years, before nodding. “Sure. I’ll take it.”

“Are you sure?” Lydia says. “This is ten years we’re talking about.”

“Do you not want me to?”

Lydia laughs. Then what remains of Julia's lively brown hair speckles with gray. New lines cut into her skin, highlighting the time taken from her.

And finally, the last light turns off.

Julia shakes, and it’s only Lucretia’s arm keeping her upright.

* * *

Taako’s on the wrong side of the curtain. Maybe. Not really. He can’t see how Lucretia and Davenport are doing, but he can see Ren.

For some reason, she doesn’t look any different. Her hair is still silver, and under her exhaustion is still the drowish beauty of a girl too scared to risk failure in the world. He can’t really say why he thought she would be different—she’s a dark elf, just a different version of him. It’ll take a few hundred years before she stats wasting away.

He’s almost glad he can’t reach her, since then he’ll have to think of something to say and he hasn’t really thought of an answer to that question. Not one instance did he ever think that she would be the one to come rushing in through the doors.

She shouldn’t be back here. He knows that much. He told her to stay out and never come back, and here she is again: putting herself through the same exact shit he killed himself trying to get her out of. If he could, he would march right over to her and give her a piece of his mind. But as it is, he’s stuck here while she stands over there.

So he watches as she spins the wheel and loses her right hand. Thank goodness she’s left handed. The orc friend who he knows he met but still can’t remember the name of lost the memory of her family. Her human friend spins, and lands on swords. He takes the punishment instead, and spins two more times. He ages a handsome ten years and gets a mark of bad luck. Poor guy. Taako would pity him if he actually gave shit.

He looks up at the endless ceiling, long used to blocking out the hum of Lydia and Edward’s lavish narrations. He gets how this place works, how it ties into who Lydia and Edward are. He doesn’t understand necromancy or bonds the way they do, but he knows how to take one thing and transform it into another. If he gets the right opportunity, he knows he can take this place down for good.

“Now it’s time for us to move on to our second round of _My Enemy, My Enemy, and Me,”_ Edward says after the curtain separating the two stages is pulled back. Taako almost groans, leaning back as he waits for them to present another one on one battle situation, play their little scam, and sap more raw power from the suffering of those around them. He instead focuses on Lucretia and Davenport, trying to map out all the ways their rounds through the wheel might have affected them.

Lucretia looks fine. Davenport looks _rough._ And that other person traveling with them (Lucretia's girlfriend?) looks more than dead. How they'll make it through another round of fighting, he doesn't know.

“This next round is very simple.” The arena changes so that there are two long work tables and a pile of junk three stories high standing in the middle. Edward’s teeth are large and shiny as he says, “Avi and Captain Davenport— you have twelve hours to build an engine.”

Taako startles. This is different.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I thought that this sacrifice scene was going to take like 1K words. That was my hubris talking (and I didn't even advance any of the subplot this chapter smh). So yeah, next round of Wonderland is next chapter, and trust me when I say that it's going to be a wild ride. After all, Wonderland only gets more painful the longer you're in there.
> 
> If you wanna know more various fun facts about this chapter like specifics on each of the spins and also get a preview of the next chapter, check out the extended chapter notes here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/175722473531/northern-migration-chapter-17-notes-preview
> 
> And, as always, thank you to everyone who has stuck around with this story, whether that be from chapter one or just seeing this update today and deciding to give it a go. I'm grateful for every single one of you. I plan on being back here soon with that next chapter so that will (hopefully) live up the hype. Thank you so very much! I love you! xoxoxoxoxoxxoxo


	18. In Which Davenport Hears His Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Round Two of Wonderland: build an engine!  
> (Just make sure the sacrifices you make are worth it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: in the first section of this chapter (the Taako and Ren flashback) there's a bit of gore that I think goes beyond what any McElroy would normally have in the show. In short, Ren has a broken arm where the bone sticks out of the skin. I did my best not to make the descriptions of it too graphic, but I do think it's necessary in order to help convey the state she and Taako are in.

This is the part of the story that sounds like a bard’s song. There was once two heroes who were sure that they could figure out a way through a nonsensical game of horrors, only to fall victim to it themselves. A twist of sore irony, the last gem on a crown of tragedy worn on their heads. There was once a girl named Ren. She had a friend named Taako. Together, they were going to defeat Wonderland. So they entered. In turn, Wonderland destroyed them.

Ren lost Istus’s knitting needles on her first spin at the Wheel of Sacrifice. Taako lost the chance lance a few rounds later. They played _Trust or Forsake_ , jamming their hands on a button as they prayed that their long lost opponents would show them mercy (they hardly did, if ever). They rolled the dice and faced off against a creature of their creation in the _Monster_ _Factory_. They did this in a nauseating cycle, over and over again until Ren swore a purple worm was going to break through the floor and swallow them whole.

She lost a few fingers. He lost an eye.

She gave up a few memories of her childhood. He became just a little bit more clumsy.

They fought with no rest. They were electrified and cut, bleeding from every limb as they struggled to catch their breaths. All the while, Lydia and Edward hung above them and reveled at their misery.

Their last round of Wonderland.

Taako casted _Evard’s black tentacles,_ binding the flying flame creature in the air long enough for Ren to douse it with a ray of ice. The spells took all their concentration; they were low on magic each. When Ren’s energy tampered off completely, she groaned and rushed towards it, batting it on the head with her rod. “Move,” Taako called before casting his last spell. It was a weaker version of _magic missile,_ just enough to give the cursed creature it’s finishing blow.

When the thing whined its last bit of life and fell limp, both Taako and Ren breathed a tired sigh of relief. “Holy fuck,” Ren said as she winced. A few rounds back, she took a hit that sent her flying into the wall with a force so great her arm broke. Taako said that he could see a bit of her bone jutting out from the underside of her arm, but she was determined to not look.

“Congratulations on completing another round of Wonderland!” One of the elves said. Which one, it did not matter. Taako and Ren only resigned themselves to the humiliation of having their image projecting to the other sorry suckers who pressed forsake earlier. They felt like rag dogs with limbs hanging by the barest limp string.

“Now it’s time to do another round at the Wheel of Sacrifice!”

And the wheel rose up from the ground, two bulbs beaming above it as it waited to be spun.

“Hey, quick question.” Taako dragged his feet forward, trying to disguise his limp under a casual sway. He experienced a bit of bad luck earlier that ended with a washing machine falling from the ceiling and crushing his foot. “We’ve been at this shit for hours. Are you ever going to start making good on your promises or are we just going to admit to each other that this is one big fucking trap?”

Lydia’s voice rang clear above them as she laughed. “Don’t be impatient, Taako. Your reward is coming, you’re just going to have to—”

“Earn it. Yeah, I know. Big shocker.” With no one physically there to resent, he chose to glare at the wheel. “Give me some proof.”

Edward said, “You’re going to have to—”

“I want some proof!”

Ren winced. “Taako…”

“Cause here’s the facts,” Taako yelled. “I don’t think you fucks got her. I don’t think you ever did. But fuck, you know something about her and I need to know how the fuck you know that. How do you know anything about her? How do you know anything about me?”

“Does people knowing things about you upset you?” Edward’s laugh was a dry sound that made Taako flinch. “I can see exactly the kind of person you are, Taako. And you’re running from a lot. Really, it’s amazing you’ve kept it secret for so long.”

“Taako?” Ren looked at him, clutching her arm. She feels her bone between her fingers. “What the heck is he talking about?”

Taako stared at the ground, shaking.

“You have billions of deaths on your hands,” Edward said. “I can see all of them, bound to you. All the bonds of the people whose lives you took.”

“Shut up!” Taako pointed his glaive at the ceiling, as if he wasn’t a point away from collapsing from magical exhaustion. “How the fuck—”

“Taako,” Ren said, this time a bit more forcefully. “What the fuck is going on?”

His anger evaporated. Posed with his arm outstretched, his head moved like a creaking door as he turned to look at her. His eyes were large, primal fear clear on his features. Ren just stared back, breathless. The lights of the room shifted in neons that slapped the face, but she didn’t see it. She knew that, in this moment, his mask was off. This was what Taako had been hiding. A guilty man with a cost too great to ever repay.

“Are you going to spin the wheel or not?” Lydia said. “You’re not going to get any farther in Wonderland if you don’t.”

Ren made a decision. She stepped closer to Taako, pretending not to see the way he tensed. She placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to give him a reassuring smile before giving him a firm squeeze. He didn’t react. He only stared. When she moved away, a bloodied handprint marred the purple cloth of his cloak. “We’re done here,” she said, standing firm between him and where they imagined the Wonderland elves to be. “We’re not playing anymore.”

“We’re sorry to see you go.” Fake sympathy drenched the disembodied voice. “But unfortunately, you’ve gotten too far in. You can either keep playing the game or we can kill you.”

Taako broke from his stupor with a jolt. “What—”

“Ugh, fine.” Ren marched up to the wheel. She spun it once, not bothering to see where it landed. When the elves offered to take half her hearing, she said fine and the world turned quiet on one side of her head. Her ear twitched, searching for sound it could no longer hear.

Taako’s expression was unreadable. “Ren.”

She spun the wheel again.

“Ren!” he shouted.

“It’s fine,” she snapped back. “You need a break. I can do both rounds.”

The wheel slowed until its arrow pointed at the symbol of the brain.

“I think it’s time we raised the stakes a bit,” Edward said. “We’ve already taken quite a lot from your memories. How about we take a long learned skill? If you want to make it further into Wonderland, you’re going to have to give up all knowledge of evocation magic.”

“Take the penalty,” Taako said, struggling to limp to her. He jerked her shoulder back. “You’re a fucking evocation master. Don’t be stupid.”

She met his eyes. This wasn’t about strategy anymore. Now they were fighting to keep living long enough to figure out how to escape, to not lose their heads in the process. She could spare to lose more than him. “Take it. I don’t need evocation.”

He looked distraught.

The wheel went away and the buttons for _Trust or Forsake_ appeared. Without looking, Ren smashed the one for forsake. They watched as the sign above them displayed their response before showing their opponent’s—trust. This wasn’t their first time lucking out. Edward and Lydia didn’t bother putting them through a mockery of a bonus round, merely allowing the three platforms to raise into the air with the three signs displaying their purposes.

“You know the rules by now,” Lydia said as her voice echoed through the room. “Each platform will take you to a different game. You can get healing, regain some magic energy, or escape. But remember—everything comes with a price!”

Ren gave a beleaguered sigh, about to put her arms akimbo when her broken bones blared with pain. She hissed. “Okay, okay. So I don’t think either of us are healed up enough to give each other any kind of health. Let’s just get some magic back.” She took a few steps towards the platform.

Taako didn’t move.

“C’mon whiz,” she said.

Taako looked from the ground to the first platform, the one labeled for escape. “Ren…”

“Hey, you know the rules,” she said, marching back to him. Choosing escape will end with only one free while the other is doomed to fight in Wonderland forever. “We’ll find a different way out.” She grabbed his arm, but he jerked it away with a cry.

She stopped as he struggled to breathe. She felt her façade crack. “Taako?” Her voice wavered. “Taako, it’s alright. We’re going to make it out of here together. Then we’ll find Lup. You and me. I’m not going to abandon you.”

“Why won’t you?” He held his arms close to his chest, panting through gritted teeth. His lips twisted in a snarl. “Can’t you just, fucking, be selfish? Get off your high horse and remember what the fucking mud looks like? Seriously— _fuck!”_

She held the hand of her good arm in the air, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. “Because you’re my friend, Taako. I care about you.” She lowered that hand, if only to hold it out for him. “Come on. You know me. You can trust me.”

He looked from her hand, up to her face.

He drew his glaive.

The bolt of a spell strikes her chest. She stumbled back, feeling it spread through her chest and try to reach into her mind. She screamed, shaking it away. “No, no! Taako, what the—”

He fired another one. Again it crept up her neck, but she saved against it.

The third time, the magic that hit her was painful, striking the shoulder of her broken arm. She screamed and fell backwards, clutching where it had burned through her shirt and torched her skin. She stayed on the ground, a sob leaving her as the pain became unbearable. A moment later, the original spell he tried to cast on her hit again. This time, she was too distracted to resist.

Cotton filled her cranium, her thoughts turning to a frothy foam. When she looked up at Taako, she saw the hard, guarded expression on his face and felt a hurricane of affection. “Taako! My best friend!” she exclaimed, every pain in her body forgotten. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing.” He looked around, stowed his glaive back into the depths of his cloak, and bent down to offer her a hand. He was tense. “How’s the shoulder feeling?”

Deep in her head, a part of her brain knew what the spell was. _Charm person._ It was such a basic spell, but its grip wrapped tightly around her brain, forcing her lips into a joyous smile as she let him help her to her feet. “A little sore, but it’s going to get better. It has to be as long as you’re here.”

“Well, my friend, it’s about to get better.” He slung an arm around her shoulder. “Listen, Ren. We’ve had a good run together. But it’s time for the band to break up.”

Her face fell into an exaggerated look of horror. “We can’t break up! I told you that we’re going to get through this together!”

“I know. It pains me too.” He placed a melodramatic hand on his chest. “But I am the greatest wizard this dimension has ever seen and you? Well, you’re not even an evocation specialist anymore. You’re nothing but deadweight to me. An inconvenience, really.”

“Oh,” she said. The sorrow burrows deep into the hollows of her chest. “I didn’t realize I was being an inconvenience.”

“Well, you won’t have to be any longer.” He directed her eyes towards the platform towards the Escape Game. “All you have to do is step on that thing over there, and you’ll be out of my hair.”

“Okay. If that’s what you want.” Ren felt her legs start towards it, but the part of her that knew what was happening—that screamed and railed against everything he was doing—made them stop. When she looked back at him, the unnatural smile still curled her lips, but now tears marked trails down her dirty face. “I can’t leave you. You’re my best friend. I can’t leave you here.”

He pressed his finger to her lips, hushing her. “It’s alright. I’m Taako. I got this one in the bag. And you know what? When you’re outside, I want you to walk as far away from this place as possible and don’t look back.”

“Taako." Her voice cracked “ _Please.”_

For a second, his face broke. Hiding under the wide brim of his wizard hat, he nudged her towards the platform. “Just leave.”

The spell carried her legs onto the platform. She could hear Edward and Lydia’s jeers ring above them, but all she cared about was her best friend’s face as he refused to watch her be lifted away.

Then she was outside, but her legs kept moving. She walked past all the billboards telling her to turn around and headed into the thick woods of the Felicity Wilds. For an hour, she walked. And walked. And walked.

With every step, her head cleared, the remains of the hour-long spell drifted away. Then, when her foot snapped a twig in two, she came back to herself. She screamed out, hand over her mouth as the birds cried in her wake. Tremors rattled her body, too many emotions crashing through her as the gravity of what had happened made itself clear.

She ran back to Wonderland, stumbling through the brush as she searched for the path. She was in so much agony, but she had to try. When she found the imposing building , she banged her fist against the black walls. Not once did her name ever light up. Not once was she invited back inside.

She swore she could hear Edward and Lydia laughing.

Ren sank to the ground, knees close to her chest as she heaved. Somewhere on the other side, she knew Taako was facing the consequences of setting her free. She couldn't imagine what that damnation looked like.

For many years, that was the end of their story—the boy on the inside while the girl remained trapped outside.

* * *

The mountain of junk in the middle of the room towers, blocking Davenport’s view of the opposing team. He stares at the intimidating height, watching as the colors of the unseen spotlights dance on the various metals and textures, before focusing in on the instructions Lydia and Edward are giving. “It would be such a shame not to test out the abilities of two of the best engineers Wonderland has ever seen,” Lydia says from up on her stage.

Next to her, Edward nods and lets his cape flare out around him. “So we figured it would be best to put your respective abilities to the test. You’ll have twelve hours to build the best engine you are capable of building. Then we’ll put them to the test.”

“Only Davenport and Avi are allowed to build the engines,” Lydia says. “Anyone else who tries to assist will face a punishment, but don’t worry. There’ll be a way you can help.” She snaps her fingers, and an hour glass the size of a child appears on the stage. Invisible hands turn it upside down, and the pink sand inside starts funneling downwards. “Your twelve hours begin now!”

At the cue, a circle appears in the ground. It cuts through the space between Davenport and where Lucretia and Julia stand. He jumps back for a moment, then tries to reach a hand to their side. His palm meets a barrier that turns a transparent black at his touch. It zaps him. He cries out and holds his hand back.

Lucretia shouts something as Julia tries to add her own thoughts, but their voices aren’t even muffled. They simply can’t break through the barrier. Davenport taps a finger to his ear, and they both seem to get the idea. Lucretia looks exhausted. Julia scowls and a plume of black smoke comes from her mouth. She throws her head back and groans.

Davenport taps his hand over his heart.

Lucretia sighs and does the same. They'll be okay.

Davenport turns his back to the barrier and takes a second to strategize. The pile of junk looks rough, but he’s had to do more with less. He still has Jenkins’ watch in his possession, and it might come in handy for helping him find the high quality pieces. The problem, of course, is in what the engine needs to be used for. If it’s about stamina, making sure it can last a long time with the least amount of fuel, a bond engine would be best. But if he’s looking for sheer power, he’ll have to configure something else.

“Hey!” Scraps of machinery fall away, making loud clatters on the ground as Avi scales the side of the pile. He looks much older than the last time Davenport saw him, so maybe he also spun a clock at the Wheel of Sacrifice. Clumsily, Avi hops off the pile. He swears as he stumbles to catch his step. “Are you also trap on this side?”

“Yes.” Davenport lingers his hand over his wand. “Of course, that is easily guessed.”

“Yeah, it kinda is.” Avi scratches his neck. His beard, once a rich brown, looks duller. More than a few strands are gray. “Um, look. This doesn’t feel right.”

Davenport crosses his arms over his chest. “Uh-huh.”

“I just—look, I get how this game is laid out. We’re supposed to be enemies and stuff. But, listen, I don’t think we have to go along with it.”

“You’re coming in a bit late for a peace treaty.”

His shoulders loosen. “Your friend. Julia? That piano got her because she rolled bad luck, right? The same thing’s probably going to happen to me. And I’m already kinda fucked over.” He holds out his right hand, showing off his missing thumb. He laughs. “I’m good, but not _that_ good.”

Davenport considers his options very carefully. Then he pulls his right arm free and lets the sleeve of his red jacket fall down. Avi pales. “I’m right handed, by the way,” he says, turning his stump around. “Or, at least, I once was.”

“I’m sorry,” Avi says. He means it, and it makes Davenport smile wistfully. “Is the punishment that bad?”

He knows he should be careful what kind of information he gives out, but he can’t help but to explain, “It’s double the spins at the wheel. In short, it sucks.”

Avi looks up at the pile of rubble. “I’m going to lose this anyway. I should just help you.”

“We both know that’s a bad idea,” Davenport says. “You help me, it’s not just your blood you’ll be giving up. It’s Killian and Ren’s as well. The odds are bad for both of us, but you won’t be able to live with yourself if you throw them under the bus with you.”

Avi sighs, then relents with a nod.

The side of his hand touches his forehead in a formal salute. “I expect a fair competition, Captain.”

Avi snorts, then sends him a sloppy one in return. “Good luck, captain.”

It takes a bit more shuffling over the sides of the scrap mountain for Avi to make it back to his side. When Davenport turns around, he sees Lucretia and Julia throws their hands up at him, as if to ask what the heck just happened there. He only shrugs. He’s not even sure, though he remembers Merle once saying that Avi is the person that Barry thinks is an okay person. Now he can see why.

The first hour, Davenport plans his engine. He finds a tool box filled with wrenches and supplies of varying quality. With a bit of notebook paper, he sketches out the design of a basic engine. Or at least, he tries to. His left hand fumbles with the pencil, and the lines look like the drawings of a toddler. At least, that's what his terrible vision tells him. When he swears at his hand, he sees a bit of black smoke drift into the air. That’s when the idea of his engine hits him— a bond engine that hijacks the suffering these games generate.

It’s when he has to start looking for parts for his engine that he hits his first wall. With Jenkins’ pocket watch, he can easily wade through the parts until he can find the best quality of what he needs, but with only one hand, he has no way of dislodging it. He tugs and pulls, but his left hand isn’t used to wrapping itself around things a certain way. Davenport loses balance too many times and finds himself rolling down the mountain, head over heels until he’s sprawled on the ground.

“Looks like you might need an extra hand.”

Davenport rolls his eyes and groans. “This better be about giving me my hand back.”

Edward’s laugh booms over him, sounding as though it’s coming from a well-loved speaker. “But that’ll go against everything Wonderland stands for.”

“Fine, then go away.”

“But you haven’t even heard our offer yet!” A billboard lowers from the ceiling, one surrounded by flashing lights. It lists two options—sabotage and assistance. “We call this the Collaborate-tor! With it, we’ll lend you the help that you need, but you’ll need to pay the price.”

Davenport frowns. Sabotage is not an option, not after how nice Avi has made himself out to be. Maybe that was the purpose of their little encounter earlier—make himself seem more sympathetic so that Davenport can’t even consider turning against him. But he still needs to build the engine, if only to avoid another double whopper round at the Wheel of Sacrifice. “Okay, fine. I’ll take assistance. What’s the price? My other hand?”

“Oh, no. We wouldn’t do that to you.” The barrier around him turns an opaque black for a moment, before becoming transparent again. This time, Julia and Lucretia haven’t seem to notice. They both sit a few feet away, talking amongst themselves as Lucretia sorts through her pedestrian medical kit. He sits up, feeling a thrum of fear run through him. It’s a two-way mirror, with only him being able to look through. “It wouldn’t be fair to burden you with another sacrifice while you also have to build an engine. That’s simply cruel.”

“Please don’t say it,” Davenport says.

“Chose something for one of your teammates to lose,” Lydia says. “If it’s enough, you’ll get the assistance you need.”

“No, I can’t.” Davenport stands to his shaky feet. He’s so tired. “I change my mind.”

The elves laugh. “Alright, but the offer is there if you ever need it.”

And that’s the horrible part—he does need it. He tries again to dig out the parts he needs, but he’s not strong enough. He tries to use _mage hand_ and any other kind of magic he can think of, but he immediately gets zapped by Lydia and Edward. “Avi isn’t a magic user,” they scold. “It wouldn’t be fair for you to use it but not him.”

Davenport wastes two hours with his stubbornness. He can hear Avi on the other side of the mountain using a blow torch, yet he hasn’t even gotten the base of his engine started. He yells, feeling his hands shake. He can’t stop thinking about Julia’s face when she let the memory of her father leave her. His heart shattered at the strength Lucretia had to display, and he’s not sure if it’ll ever repair itself again. They can't go through another bad round at the wheel again. He has to win this.

“Fine! You win!” He glares up at the ceiling. “I need assistance.”

Pure delight marks Edward’s voice. “So you’re finally seeing reason now? What would you like to sacrifice?”

Davenport looks through the two-way barrier, feeling his stomach grow sick. Lucretia sleeps with her head on Julia’s lap, restoring her magic. And Julia watches over her with her sword drawn, waiting for an attack. He takes a moment to think. Julia is in the worse state, but if this pattern holds up, Lucretia will be the next in line to compete. He wants to signal them, demand to know what they would prefer, but nothing he does will ever make them realize what he’s about to do.

His blood is cold. “Julia.” He swallows. “Take her…” Make her lose more time? This is assistance for him losing a hand. Presuming that they want him to sacrifice more than necessary—

“Her leg,” he finishes. “Her left leg.” It’s the leg that faced the wraith of the glass shark. She can’t use it anyway.

“It’s a deal!” Without the beat of the music, Davenport can hear the ringing of Barry’s bell. Julia startles, looking around for a moment when she feels a force hit her. It’s not until she looks down at her legs does she see what happened. From the below the knee onwards, her left leg is gone. She screams, and more black smoke plumes from her mouth. Lucretia wakes up and—

The barrier is opaque once again, not allowing him to see the results of his choices. Davenport wants to scream for it to turn transparent again. He needs to know what they do. He has to know if they can forgive him.

“And here is your collaborator!” Light beams down, hitting a spot a few feet away from him. He sees the humanoid shape first, and it’s not until the light dies down does he see who it is.

What it is.

It’s one of the mannequins from earlier. It looks as though it’s been blasted by a few hard hitting spells, and it’s missing an arm. Davenport almost cries. It’s the same one that tried to attack him during the last round.

“We’ll just put a little spell on him so that he listens to whatever you say...” Black magic sparks around the wood limbs, causing its fake shoulders to go from slouching to upright. “There you go. Enjoy your help!”

Davenport’s hand shakes. He stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket, just taking a moment to think through the implications of everything that has happened. Of course Edward and Lydia would do this to him.

“I need the broken compressor over there,” he says. Before he can point, the mannequin starts for the pile, climbing up perfectly to the compressor he wants. The wood limbs belie its strength, and it pulls it out with one hand easily and carries it back down.

Davenport quirks a brow. “Okay,” he says. The mannequin looks down at him. Even without a face, he can tell it’s expecting more. “This can work.”

* * *

Johann is not a morning person. If you ask him, he’s the exact opposite of one. At night he thrives, spending hours behind an instrument as he works through composition after composition. When the world is dark, it’s like he can see the music in the universe and he only has to transcribe what it sings. During the early morning, composition is like pulling out wisdom teeth with a toothpick. But just after dawn is when the bard’s college in Goldcliff meets, and Johann has a job to do. Armed with a black coffee and an even unhappier disposition, he steps into the music hall and faces his daily plight.

As far as the college is concerned, he’s been consistently employed by an adventuring party under Killian’s name for a few years now. All he’s required to do is submit a few compositions to some of the college masters to verify that he’s still doing whatever it is that bards do. He stands before the desk of one of the college master’s desks now, entertained more by the way the rays of the morning sun dance on the cherry wood of her cello in the corner than on how thoroughly she scans through his song. She’s the same tiefling he sees every month, but he doesn’t really know anything about her beyond the gold plate on her desk stating her name. He’s not too keen on making her his next best friend, but he still thinks it’s odd that she doesn’t know him beyond the music on his papers.

She whistles some of the bars, sniffling when even a few notes makes tears come to her eyes. Once she reaches the end of the last page, she nods and stamps the corner of the papers. “Looks good.” She grabs her handkerchief and blows her nose and dabs the tears from her face. “We’ll inform you once the plagiarism check for it goes through.”

“Cool,” Johann says, already holding out a hand for the receipt.

The woman pauses, her red scales like a bright fire in the sunlight, her clawed hand lingering on the receipt. “Can I give you a bit of constructive criticism?”

He shrugged. “I mean, sure? You’re the guild master.”

Her smile is wry. “Your music is incredible. I’ve never stumbled upon a bard that can just consistently make me feel something. But that something is always sorrow. Melancholy. Sadness. You’ve never making me think about what any of it means. You just make me sad.”

“You want me to write happier music?”

“I want your music to say something. Anything.” She pushes the receipt towards him. “You’re a bard. Inspire me.”

Her words stick to the forefront of his mind as he mingles with some of the other bards who also work with adventuring parties. Johann tries to pay attention to what they sing, always looking for a rumor of what can be the next Grand Relic, but his brain always circles back to her gentle plead.

_Say something. Anything._

His songs have meanings. They’re the catalogues of his emotions, documented in violin strings so that he never has to vocalize them. That may not make them the world changing pieces of art the college master might want, but they’re meaningful to him. It wouldn’t be right to insist that the thoughts in his head are worth glorifying.

When Avi and Killian first came back from Phandalin—without Brian—Johann bolted himself inside his room and let his tears punctuate the drawling back and forth of his bow on the strings. Why is he expected to analyze his friend’s death, turning an act of violence to a testament of some worldly idea? There’s no meaning in Brian being alive one day and dead the next. Like many things in life, it’s senseless.

Johann leaves the college much earlier than he usually does, a huff on his lips as he marches through the streets of Goldcliff. He’s still in the wealthier part of town, so the only people out are those with jobs or brunches to attend. Even in early autumn, the sun is hot and intense, making the sidewalk a bleach white that burns his eyes.

He’s only starting to reenter the market district when a muscular arm hooks around his neck. Johann only has a second to realize what is about to happen before the muscles squeeze tight around his throat. His cry of surprise becomes nothing more than a wheeze. He kicks his legs back. His heels batter the meat of his attacker’s shins, but they don’t care. The pressure around his neck only tightens. No one on the street seems to care.

Into the alleyway he is dragged. Johann tries to cry out for help, but all his noises are strangled. He claws at the arm. His throat is only crushed more. Maybe this is how he’s going to die.

The pressure around his neck disappears. Hands push him forward. He stumbles, almost falling onto the litter-covered ground as he gasps for air. It’s like the muscles in his throat are expanding and it hurts as much as it relieves. A pair of hands grabs his shoulders, and he’s pushed back into the wall. Pain shoots through his skull, and Johann cries out as the back of his head strikes the hard brick. He can hear multiple voices jeer at him, but he screws his eyes shut and tries to make himself smaller until he’s too small to kill.

“Hey, bard!” It’s not until the pair of hands yank him from the wall to shove him back into it again does Johann open his eyes. Three thugs decked in the leather jackets of the Hammerheads crowd around him, the biggest one holding him against the wall with a delighted sneer. “Not so tough now you don’t got that harp on ya. Can’t fuck up our ears now, pal.”

They hoot and holler as Johann cringes. Of course the one awesome thing he’s done in his life is going to get him killed.

“I heard your kind’s got a knack for insults.” One of the thugs that moves like he was raised by snakes slinks closer to him, a comb in his hands. He flicks it. A small blade swings out, and he jams it under Johann’s chin. Johann squeaks, feeling the sharp tip just fall shy of breaking skin as the Snake Thug leans in. “Got any for us now, pal? Any you wanna lay on before we gut ya?”

And the three of them pause, as if they actually want him to answer.

Johann swallows. “Uh…”

“I got a better idea.” He leans in closer, until his hot breath makes Johann want to gag. “How about you tells us exactly where your buddy Worker Bee is.”

“Worker Bee?” Johann’s voice is nothing more than a squeak. “I, uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

He’s pulled away from the wall, only to be slammed back into it. His cry of pain is a delight to the snake thug. “So you think you can play dumb with us—”

“To be fair, I’m sure it’s hard to be dumber than you.” The three thugs jump, turning in every which direction as they search for the source of the voice. A sharp whistle cuts through the air, cueing them to look up at the window sill a few stories up. A woman in a black feathered opera mask perches on the side of the wall, seemingly defying gravity as she smirks down at the thugs. She waves a gauntlet covered hand. “Y’know, I thought this was supposed to be the safe part of town.”

“Who’s you?” the shortest thug demands.

The woman in all black grins. “Guess.” The name of the Raven is on their lips when she bounces off the wall. Johann can see that the end of a harpoon is buried in the red stone, a cord attaching it to the belt on her hips as she swoops down from below.

With the momentum of her fall, she’s able to take down the tallest thug with a kick aimed at his thick neck. He goes down in an instant. Still a few feet in the air, she swings around to the opposite wall, then kicks off of it. The knuckles of her gauntlet bashes into the face of the thug with the knife, effectively freeing Johann. He knows he should run away, but he’s left stupefied as one last swing-and-punch combo takes out the last of his attackers.

“Man, I should really do a lot more vigilante work.” The Raven places her feet on solid ground, before taking the extra care to stand on the chest of the snake thug. With a good tug, the harpoon in the building dislodges and she catches the metal hook in one arm without looking.

Then the sharp end of the hook is aimed under Johann’s chin. He yelps, hands going up in the air in the universal sign of surrender. “What the heck!” he shouts. “I thought you’re on my side!”

“Funny,” the Raven replies. “Never said I was.”

Johann replays the last sixty seconds in his mind. “Okay, you didn’t _—”_

“Why are the Hammerheads so interested in Avi?”

“Uh, who?” He tries.

The Raven rolls her eyes. “Okay. I don’t want to play this game with you. You can tell me exactly what you know about this whole mess and I can get you out of my hair as soon as possible.”

He pauses. “You know Avi.”

“Wow. Look at me asking about some guy I don’t know—”

“I don’t know a lot, but every person from his past who’s coming barging back in calls him Worker Bee. Those guys did. So did a bunch of other Hammerheads at the race. But not you. How do you know Avi?”

She frowns and jabs the harpoon forwards. He flings himself back, pressing as close to the wall as he can. “He fucked me over, if you have to know. Does that ring a bell?”

“Uh…”

She presses the harpoon closer, just enough to pierce the skin of his neck enough to draw a slim drop of blood. It hurts like a motherfucker, and all Johann can do about it is give a litany of ows and pray she shows mercy. “I’ll give you one last shot. Just tell me what you know about the Hammerheads and Avi.”

“They wanted to hire him for something,” Johann says quickly. “Something about winning races. I don’t know! I’m a bard!”

For a long moment, the Raven stares him down. Then she pulls back the harpoon. He breathes a sigh of relief, loosening as he rubs a hand over his pricked neck. She smirks. “Tell Avi to watch himself,” she says before aiming the harpoon upwards. She shoots it into the upper edge of the building. Crumbs of red stone fall through the air, showering Johann.

He shakes them out of his hair. “Hey, wait. What does that mean?”

The Raven makes a face. “You don’t know what ‘watch yourself—‘”

“No—I mean, yeah! I know what that means.” He stands as strong as he can. “I mean the fucked over part. What does that mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He doesn’t move.

“Oh god, you’re serious.” She tugs on the cord of her harpoon, making sure it’s attached to her harness. “If you’re so close to him, ask him yourself.” With that, she presses a button. The cord winds up, launching her upwards at what should be neck breaking speed.

Where she goes from there, Johann doesn’t know. He only feels his face burn with embarrassment—why doesn’t he know anything about Avi’s past—before hearing one of the thugs stir. He turns and sprints away, unaware that the Raven follows where he goes from above.

* * *

Julia rubs her knee, cupping her hands around what remains of her joint to massage it. It didn’t hurt—maybe that’s the worst part. One second it was there, the next it was gone. But her brain says it should hurt, and now the ache echoes down her thighs and cumulates at her knee. “You should sleep,” Lucretia says. Now that her spell slots are replenished, she wastes no time in ripping off the ends of her skirt once again, bunching it into a wad that she can cast a cooling spell on. Her hands land on top of Julia’s, and she moves them off her knee to press the iced cloth on top.

The pain numbs, but the ache is something much more than physical.

“And what?” Julia says. “Miss you losing something?”

Lucretia’s mouth tightens, but there’s nothing she can say about it otherwise.

“We need to get out of here,” Julia says as more black smoke wafts from her mouth. It takes all of her self-restraint to not swear and make it worse. “What are they even trying to do here? If this was just about making people suffer, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Lucretia jolts. “Pardon?”

“I should be dead, but I’m still moving, aren’t I? It’s like they’re keeping me going while still making sure I feel how dead I should be.”

“Necromancy.” Lucretia looks around, catching sight of the excited audience. Nothing has happened for hours, yet their enthusiasm is endless. She pulls out her wand. “Davenport said that there were illusions everywhere, right?”

On herself and Julia, she casts _true sight._

And they see the truth of Wonderland.

“Oh,” Lucretia says. “Motherfucker.”

* * *

 

Twelve hours pass quickly. He and the one-armed mannequin work in complete tandem, the mannequin often knowing what Davenport is going to ask for before he can say it aloud. Occasionally, the elves pop in to ask if he wants any more assistance—another pair of helping hands, better parts for his engine—but soon switch to just mocking him for sacrificing Julia’s leg when it becomes obvious he won’t take the bait again.

When they have an hour left, it’s down to doing some basic tests. “I think I can handle it from here,” Davenport says to the mannequin. “Thank you.”

The mannequin seems to stand there for a moment. Then it turns back to the pile of rubble. It starts pulling out long stretches of metal, which is odd enough. Davenport wants to know what it’s doing, but instead focuses on making sure the engine runs well.

With a few minutes left, the mannequin knocks its hand on his shoulder. Davenport looks up from the wrench he had been tightening to see it hold out what looks like a metal version of its own leg, complete with a few straps to attach it to someone’s joint. He takes it in his hands—it’s heavy—and smiles. “This is incredible.” He looks it over. “It’s more Lucretia sized than Julia, but it’s great.”

The mannequin tilts its head to the side before through its hand up in the air with frustration.

Davenport laughs.

“Times up!” The last of the pink sand falls into the hourglass. “Now it’s time for the real exciting part of the round!”

Davenport’s stomach lurches. He’s in a train car, one that would remind him of the Rockport Limited if not for how outlandishly _Wonderland_ it is. Shag carpets, the same psychedelic décor. His skin glows neon green under the strange lighting. He expects to find Avi or the mannequin standing next to him, but he’s alone. When he looks out the window, he can see another train. Avi stands inside that one, face oil-smeared as he looks equally startled.

“Your engines are in the other person’s train,” Lydia’s voice says.

“You’re going to have to get to the front of the train and dismantle it if you want to avoid the punishment,” Edward says.

“But be careful! The path to the engine is… _treacherous_.”

“And you have five minutes.”

The train lurches forward, going at a neck breaking speed as the world outside turns into a blur of colors. Davenport fails to grab onto a seat for support, finding himself thrown backwards into the wall at the end of the train. He hears Lydia and Edward make a quirky call to start, and he feels the time start to tick down.

He reaches into his pocket for his wand, but once again a zap of pain goes through him. He swears. Okay. That’s not an option.

Gritting his teeth, he grabs onto the first seat and starts going forward.

For the first car, it’s turbulent speeds and sudden turns that he has to worry about. More than once, he finds himself crashing painfully into a wood rail or cushion, being flung back a few steps before he can move forwards again. It’s more than a relief when he can grab onto the door handle and push it open.

Instead of having to traverse over the bolt locking the cars together, he just enters a new car. The lighting is still neon, his ginger mustache a bizarre shade of pink, but the train is steady, only rocking lightly over the rails. This car is filled with people, all staring at the front like a church congregation. It’s silent inside when he closes the door behind him. He holds still for a moment, waiting for something to happen.

No one looks at him. The lights outside flash different colors, hypnotic.

He chooses the row closest to him and studies the face of the passengers. It’s a gnome man and woman, their hands entwined as they stare blankly ahead. They seem familiar, even if he can’t place why. “Hello?” he says. His voice is too loud. “Excuse me?”

The woman’s head snaps towards him. “Andrew?”

Davenport falls backwards, yelling as he scrambles away from his mother’s piercing gaze. There’s no emotion on her face as she stares at him, stiff and still as he pushes himself farther away from her.

“Lieutenant Commander!” From the opposite end of the car, a burly human in a white coat strides down the aisle. The emblem of a foreign navy emblazons his chest as he holds his arms out for a large hug. “It’s been so long!”

Davenport scrambles further away. He recognizes the face first as Magnus, but then he sees that the nose is the wrong shape, the hair more brown an auburn. The scar isn’t on the eye, but the corner of the mouth. The name tumbles off his lips before he can help himself. “Don?”

Donald Burnsides squats down to his height with the same jovial look he usually reserves for when he talks about his four children. “What are you doing wearing red? Since when were you one of the nerds?”

“I don’t understand,” Davenport blabbers. “You’re dead.”

“Are you replacing Bluejeans?” Don says. “I haven’t seen him around in a while.”

“Just after my promotion,” Davenport says. “You died.”

“My favorite junior officers.” A tiefling woman in a similar white uniform turns around in her row, lazing an arm over the back of the seat as she smiles. Her scales seem brown under the neon lights, yet Davenport places a name to her face anyways— Captain Yuri Buckwind. “Working hard or hardly working?”

Davenport screws his eyes shut. “This isn’t real. You’re not real.” The train rattles. Wonderland. The engine. “Fuck!” He surges to his feet, pushing past Don as he races to the other end of the car. He recognizes faces as he goes, ignoring as the phantoms of his past reach out hands to stop him—his childhood friends, his bunk mates, siblings, the paperboy.

His hand touches the handle of the door.

“Andrew!”

A sob leaves his throat. He shakes as he flings the door open and stumbles into the next car.

It’s the engine room. Heat sticks to every inch of the metal floor and walls, bringing sweat to his brow. He doesn’t waste time, managing to find the hatch to the engine and flings it open.

Avi’s engine is barely operational. It makes him pause for a moment, as if waiting for the punchline to hit. But the engine make strange noises as the bolts holding it together seem to get looser with every passing second. The idiot. Didn’t he tell Avi to make it a fair competition?

He only has to undo a few screws and dislodge a few cogs to make the engine come to a halt. At once, the light in the engine room turns to a miraculous blue. “Congratulations Captain Davenport! You’ve defeated _All-Star Train Mania_! Step outside and receive your reward!”

Davenport looks at the door. It’s the only way out and yet…

If he could open it and be faced with everyone he’s left behind once again, what will he do?

Stiffly, he stands and wipes the streaks of tears from his face. Then he takes a hold of the handle and pushes it open once more.

It’s the Wonderland arena. Thunderous cheers rain down on him from the stands, the crowd ecstatic to see him. It feels like a slap to the face. He can still hear the echoes of his mother, crying out for him. He stumbles outside, finding the prosthetic leg the mannequin had built right where he had left it on the ground. To his side, he sees Killian wretch the door of a metal box that looks exactly like his open except for how it seems crushed. Like it had been speeding before it crashed. Killian shouts her concern as she and Ren rush inside. A few moments later, she carries Avi out. He’s still alive, black smoke pouring from his mouth as he curses and swears. A silver harpoon is speared through his shoulder, and his hand clutches it as blood seeps between his fingers.

So that was his bad luck, Davenport thinks. He should consider himself lucky he’s even still alive.

“Dav!” Lucretia is holding Julia upright as she tries to hop towards him.

Squaring his shoulders, he picks up the prosthetic leg and carries it towards them. “Julia,” he says as his gut churns. “I am so sorry, I—”

“We need to cast _true sight_ on you,” Julia says quickly. “You have to see this—”

“And that’s been another round of _My Enemy, My Enemy, and Me_! It looks like our two teams are tied with one point each.” Lydia and Edward drag their attention back to the tall stage, showing off the score board with their caricatures on it. “Things are really starting to heat up here!”

The curtains snaps down the arena once more, cutting them off from Killian, Ren, and Avi. This time around, both Lydia and Edward are on the stage before them. They longue against each other like languid cats, smirks clear on their faces as they look down upon them. “Since you won this round,” Edward says. “You’ve earned yourself a reward.”

Davenport can feel the room start to bend. He quickly shouts, “I’ll chose my reward!”

And the change stops. The two elves look down at him. Amused. “Really? We have many options to chose from, including an option to help you leave—”

“We don’t need that.” Davenport holds up the prosthetic leg. Avi’s crappy engine keeps popping back into his head, and he can’t stop thinking about what it means. They don’t have to play the game anymore. They have to break it. “Help me get this on Julia. Fix the sizing, but keep it functional. That’s what we want.”

“How do you have one of those?” Lucretia demands.

He shrugs. “A mannequin gave it to me.”

Lydia and Edward exchange a look, lips twitching into frowns. “Interesting.” When Lydia looks back at them, there’s a slight smirk on her face. “Davenport, do they know why Julia lost her—”

“Julia, I had to make an executive decision to sacrifice your leg so that we wouldn’t lose the round.” Davenport presses his hand to his chest and bows like a respectful naval officer. It’s unlike anything he’s done so far—a gesture so confident and melodramatic—that both Lucretia and Julia know to play along. “And I’m sorry for that.”

Julia only looks shocked for a moment, but then a small crooked grin stretches across her face. It’s confident enough to even make the aghast look leave Lucretia’s. This is Wonderland’s game, and they’re going to win it. “Well, you are our captain. It was your call. And I can respect a good strategy.”

Lucretia clears her throat. “Plus, Jules, you were complaining about how you weren’t taking enough sacrifices.”

"You know what? I was!”

Davenport straightens and turns back to Lydia and Edward. They’re still smiling, but even now he can see the frustration breaking through their masks. He stands in the picture of confidence. “Will you give me my just reward?”

Edward frowns. “Yes. I think you’ve earned it.” A snap, and the prosthetic leg leaves Davenport’s hands.

Julia yelps when it reappears on her person, the straps buckling over her amputated thigh, securing it in place. She lets go of Lucretia’s shoulder, wobbling as she tries to maintain balance on her new leg. “Whoa.” Another yelp leaves her when she tries to take a step forward, only to fall. Lucretia catches her, and both of the women are chuckling.

“You’re gonna have to learn how to walk again,” Lucretia says.

Instead of being frustrated, Julia puts her best face forward and laughs gleefully. “Sick.”

The crowd around them breaks into a cheer that borderlines a riot when the Wheel of Sacrifice ascends from the floor once more. A comfortable three bulbs light up above it. “You seem awfully confident right now, captain,” Lydia says. “Would you care to go first?”

Davenport straightens his red jacket, putting on his most formal face. Break the game, he tells himself. “I would love to. Thank you for asking.” He strides up to the wheel, wraps his hand around the side, and gives it a good push.

_Click, click, click, click_

The arrow lands on the clock.

Edward hums, looking at his sister as they both think it over. “This is a tough one since you’re already getting up there in years for a gnome. Taking years or even the appearance of such won’t have the same effect on you. It wouldn’t be fair.” He brightens. “I have a wonderful idea.”

Lydia leans into him, grinning like a maniac. “Do tell.”

“We’ll take a lifelong skill. Something you’ve built up your entire lifetime.” He draws the microphone close to his lips. “Captain Davenport, if you accept this sacrifice, you won’t be Captain Davenport anymore. You’ll just be, well, Davenport.”

For a moment, he almost loses his composure. He’s worked for so long earning that title—it’s part of his family legacy. But they want him to be upset. And he won’t be, not when one hand and one eye already mean that he won’t ever pilot the _Starblaster_ again.

“I’ll be more than happy to accept it,” he says

Lydia and Edward grin, but this one is different. It’s thinner, dripping in joyful malice.

The first light turns off.

He still remembers how to pilot the _Starblaster._ He can recall the steering wheel, see the control board in his mind’s eye. He knows the degrees needed for a proper take off, how to read the stars to know where he’s going. All of it is still there.

He hears Lucretia force her voice to float with excitement. “How does it feel to be officially retired?” she asks.

He turns back to her. “Davenport," he says.

He slaps his hands over his mouth, blood running cold. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close, not by a long shot.

Behind him, Lydia and Edward laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extra-long chapter because I really wanted to end things on that note. If I ended this at my normal 7.5K, Davenport's sacrifice would've been in the middle of the next chapter and that does not make for good pacing *winkwonk*  
> FYI, remember how I was accused of hating Barry for all that stuff I put him through at the beginning of the story? I fully expect to get some of that again with how mean I'm being to Davenport right now. In my humble defense, bad things happen to him because I love him so much. 
> 
> There's a lot that I can say about this chapter, between the final installment of Ren and Taako's past to everything with Davenport, but I don't have enough space here to do so. So be sure to check out my extended chapter notes here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/176034397851/northern-migration-chapter-18-notes-preview
> 
> Of course, thank you so much to everyone who's stuck around this story, whether you've been here since chapter one or only started reading it now. This chapter is brimming with things that I'm honestly very excited to share with you, and a big part of me is amazed that I've even gotten far enough into this story to reach this point. So thank you! Without your support, none of this would be possible. Thank you! I love you all! xoxoxoxoxo


	19. In Which Lucretia Joins the Marketing Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonderland: Round Three!  
> (Is Barry okay?)  
> (Is that Taako?)

Midday. Johann stands before the mirror, craning his neck to the side, revealing the bandage he stuck under his chin. The cut the Raven left there is nothing compared to the ache radiating in every other part of his body, but having a large symbol for it helps.

Leon’s place only has one bathroom that they can use—the other being located right off of the spare bedroom where Sildar lies. Everything from Killian’s fruit scented body washes to Avi’s rigorous shaving kit clutters the counter and single cabinet, making it hard for Johann to even find space to breathe. A few of Brian’s hair products are still shoved into the corner, but no one has the heart to move them. Not yet.

Frowning, he fixes his hair before stepping back into the main room. Leon is at the ice box, standing on top of a stool so that he can reach the high shelf. Even with the extra height, his beard drags on the floor. “Did you eat the last of the rice?” Leon asks.

“I haven’t eaten all day.” He sinks into the couch. “Are you on lunch?”

“No, I’m just letting my pride and joy sit unattended during the slowest hour of the day.” He settles on a container of meat, hops off the stool, and moves it aside so that he can close the ice box. “You know, I don’t think I’m very good keeping up with all you kids.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Does Avi have some sort of girlfriend I didn’t know about?”

At that, Johann shoots upright. “Wait, what? _Girlfriend_? What makes you think that?”

Leon smiles. “Oh, just that this pretty girl came by an hour ago. Said that she’s an old friend of his. I had to tell her that he’s away on a trip. What was her name? Joan? Cone?”

Johann crosses his arms over his chest. “He’s not dating anyone.”

“That you know of.” Leon chuckles.

He feels his face burn up, to the point where no one can tell where his portwine stain begins and ends. Deeper into the couch he sinks, praying to every god in the pantheon that the cushions will swallow him whole.

“You’re too easy to read,” Leon says. With his rod, he places a spell on the meat, heating it back up to perfection. “It’s just your luck Avi’s denser than a ton of bricks.”

Johann hides his face. “I don’t think I’m his type.”

“You won’t know till you try.” He separates the meat onto two plates, taking one for himself and handing the other to Johann. “I need to run my store and actually earn a living. You need to feed our guest.”

Johann scowls. “You do it.”

“My apartment, my rules.” Leon says, shuffling downstairs. “I’ll tell Avi you were being mean to our guest.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Am I?” Leon winks, then snakes his way behind the door, closing it shut behind him. He probably has plans to yell at some poor kids loitering in front of his storefront again.

After a moment, Johann groans and pries himself from the soft trap of the couch. In five strides, he’s at the door to the spare bedroom, plate of food in hand. He flings the door open, pretending not to notice the way Sildar flinches at the noise. A thick book sits open on his lap, and it takes Johann a moment to remember where he’s seen it before. Avi bought it, saying it was for a friend.

“Here’s your lunch,” Johann says, placing the plate on top of the splayed pages.

“Uh, thank you.” Sildar adjusts the clunky glasses on his nose, giving a smile that wants to be at ease but is mostly strained. “Did you make it?”

Ren made it, making sure to mark on the side of the container how to reheat it. She doesn’t trust anyone to cook without her around, and rightfully so. Until she joined, the majority of their expenses was dedicated to take out orders. Johann shrugs in response, burying his hands in his pockets as he starts to walk away.

“Hey, wait.” He hears how Sildar shifts in the bed, setting aside both the book and the plate of food. “Can you just open the window please? It gets pretty stuffy in here and everything and—”

“Yeah, dude. Sure.” Johann marches back to the window, pretending not to notice how Sildar scrutinizes every inch of his skin. He unlocks the window and slides it upwards. Cooler air floods the room.

“Shaving accident?”

“What?” Johann says.

Sildar points to the junction of his chin and neck—where the bandage sits on his neck. He drips with sincerity as he says, “Looks nasty. I’ve never been good at it myself.”

Johann places a hand over the bandage, feeling a new flush travel from the tips of his ears down the column of his neck. “Yeah, dude. Sure.”

There’s a loud shout—distant, but harsh. Following it, the nasty crash of glass shattering into a million pieces.

Johann looks out the window, pressing his cheek as close to it as he so that he can look directly down. An inconspicuous battlewagon sits with its motor still running in front of the store. A couple of thugs in familiar looking black leather jackets linger by it while others file inside. The ruckus of whatever they’re doing to Leon follows.

“Shit!” Johann races out of the room, ignoring Sildar’s shouts of confusion as he bolts into his own bedroom. His violin sits on his bed, and he’s quick to grab it and its bow before making his way back into the living room. He makes it just in time to see the door to the stairs burst open.

Johann sticks his violin under his chin and plays a powerful note.

* * *

Lydia and Edward’s laughter is boisterous, hitting like a flurry of punches as Davenport stands in shock. The hands around his mouth slip downwards, gripping his throat instead as he tries to figure out what is even happening. He looks up, sees the concern and confusion on Julia and Lucretia’s faces. He needs to tell them that he still remembers how to pilot, but when he speaks his mouth betrays him again: “Davenport.”

He winces. “Davenport,” he tries again.

“Dav-en-port.” Again.

“ _Davenport!”_ And again.

Lucretia falls onto her knees, pressing her hands onto his shoulder as if she wants to keep him in place. “Is that the only thing you can say?”

He nods. Thank god he hasn’t lost the ability to do that.

“And you still understand me? Remember everything?”

More nodding.

“Hey!” Julia crosses her arms over her chest, glaring up at Lydia and Edward. “What the fuck? How does doing _that_ make any sense? I’m calling bullshit.”

“You misunderstand. This aligns exactly with what we said he was going to lose.” Lydia sparkles under the attention, only growing brighter with every moment of Davenport’s panic. “We said he wasn’t going to be a captain anymore.”

“And the worst leaders are the ones who can only talk about themselves,” Edward says. With every reiteration of his own name, Davenport speaks more and more black smoke into existence—Wonderland catching on to the despair in his tone. Edward’s nostrils flare, and he relaxes as though he’s breathing in a field of flowers. “How does it feel, Davenport, to no longer be a leader?”

Davenport glares at him. “Davenport!” he shouts, the black smoke flaring out like the flames of a fire. Lucretia lunges forward, smacking a hand over his mouth to stop it. She mutters calming words into his ears, trying to bring him back down from his panic.

The sound of metal scraping on metal fills the air as Julia draws her sword. “Undo it.”

“Ooo, sorry Julia.” Lydia clasps her hands together. “We don’t allow take backs. “

“What you can do is spin the wheel and get a little closer to winning the game,” Edward says.

Julia’s glare is deadly as she steps up to the wheel, wobbling on her new prosthetic leg in the process. She all but falls into it, using a hand for support to keep upright. A smirk pulls up her lips. “I can’t stand up by myself,” she says, looking prettily at Edward and Lydia. “Help?”

Lydia rolls her eyes with the full motion of her neck before jumping off the stage. She floats the last few feet. “And you said you didn’t want me to touch you,” she says, before allowing Julia to place a steady hand on her shoulder pad. Her arm hugs Julia's waist. She slides a long acrylic nail up Julia’s neck, then tilts her chin towards her. Julia grinds her teeth, her hand tightening around the hilt of her blade. “No need to be shy now, Jules. Spin the wheel now.”

Slowly, Julia takes her hand off the shoulder pad and gives the wheel a small push. She jabs her other arm forward, stabbing her sword into Lydia’s gut.

Then she’s gone. Julia’s sword goes through the wheel, nailing it in place. Lydia laughs and Julia looks up to see her back on the stage—sitting on the edge with one leg hanging off. “Very, very tricky Julia. That’s not how you show sportsmanship.”

“Fuck you!” Julia shouts, yanking her sword out.

Lydia wags a finger. “No need to be like that. Why don’t we look at what you landed on?” Sure enough, the arrow at the top of the wheel points to the drawing of the hand. “Isn’t that just darling? Didn’t you just say that you wanted to sacrifice more? Why don’t you make good on your promise now?”

This time, they can all clearly hear the ringing of the Animus Bell.

Julia screams. She falls onto her knees, shaking as she holds a hand to her left shoulder. The sleeve of her shirt—Magnus’s shirt—is hollow, dangling uselessly against her as she cries.

“No worries, there’s no bleeding,” Lydia says. “But I figured letting you feel what losing an arm is like wouldn’t… _hurt_.”

“Fuck you!”

“Language. There’s children watching.” Edward and Lydia turn their gazes to Lucretia. “And what about you? Are you going to spin?”

Lucretia looks from where Davenport is standing petrified, a hand over his mouth as he resists the urge to say anything, to where Julia sobs on the floor. Giving her captain one last reassuring squeeze, she surges to her feet. “That’s enough!” she shouts. “Let us go!”

“Really?” Edward presses a hand to his cheek in false sadness. “I’m sorry to hear you say that. Imagine what Taako will say when he finds out you gave up.”

Lucretia is speechless for a long moment. “Taako was here,” she says as the gravity of the words settle on her. She draws her wand, pointing the ivory tip at the two elves. “You stole his form to lure us here—what did you do to him?”

“We didn’t do anything,” Lydia says.

“But Ren?” Edward continues. “She did _everything.”_

Davenport slips his hands off his face. “Davenport…” His voice is unsteady, but after a century, Lucretia can tell from tone alone what he means. A warning. A reminder of what this place is like and what it will do to them. The fact that the Animus Bell is still out there, waiting to be reclaimed.

Lucretia feels like she’s ready to burst, breaking apart at the seams until she’s a torrent of anger. She wants to see this place burn _._ Davenport wanted to break the game before they did this to him. She can do what he couldn’t. “You want me to continue onwards, don’t you?” she says. “Because I will. I will play whatever nonsense game you want. I will make whatever decision you want me to make. I will even give you little slivers of despair to fuel your lich existence.”

Lydia and Edward flinch.

Lucretia smiles. Finally. “And I will only keep playing on the condition that I do not spin the wheel.”

Edward tries very hard to keep up his theatric flare. “You have to sacrifice something—”

“I will take bad luck,” Lucretia says, pointing at the symbol of the skull. If she’s lucky, she’s going to get everyone out of here before they get the opportunity to use it on her. Any other possible spin on the wheel is too risky. “Take it or we leave.”

Edward looks back at Lydia. The two share a silent conversation that ends with both their face contorting with feline glee. “You have yourself a deal.”

“Now we just need to take the other team through their rounds at the wheel,” Lydia says. “Give us one moment.”

With that, the two disappear from the stage. Lucretia waits a moment, focuses on nothing but her breathing. A part of her waits for one of the Wonderland elves to reappear on the stage and change their mind, but it remains empty. The music of Wonderland fills the air, making her skull throb to the beat.

“Okay, okay.” She gestures to Davenport to follow her to Julia’s side. She rubs her hand on the woman’s back, the circular motions soothing her through the last of the pain. “I won’t lie—we’re in a shitty spot right now.” Davenport snorts. “But we’ve made it out of worse. And we’re up against two liches with a very obvious power source. I know exactly what we need to do.”

Julia looks at her, tears staining her cheeks. “Fill us in.”

“I’m not one to favor bragging, but I am particularly good at making barriers nothing can get through.” Lucretia allows herself to smirk. “Not even the energy they need to make this place work.”

* * *

“What’s going on?” Barry shouts as Johann runs out. With both the door and window open, he can hear a few crashes on the floor below, followed by the thumping of boots heading up a set of stairs. He pushes the blanket off his legs, crawling forward as best he can to get a better view. “Are we—”

Johann dashes to the middle of the living room, tucking his violin under his chin as he stands with the poise of an experienced performer. Barry hears a door crash open, but before he can see who it is, Johann plays a powerful note.

Immediately, Barry feels the prickling of fear down his arms, the hairs sticking up straight as he seizes. The violin is sharp and precise, slapping him dumbstruck as each musical bar reaches him. Johann sways in the middle of the living room, giving the intruders a cold glare as he gives himself to the beat of his song. Yet, even as he falls deeper and deeper into the throes of his own spell, sweat drips down his face. His feet trip over themselves, too unsteady to keep him on beat.

Barry screws his eyes shut, the pull of the song growing ever stronger. His glasses start slipping off his face.

The violin makes a strange sound—a string being strung at the wrong angle. Johann mutters a swear, readjusting his grip to continue playing, but it’s too late. The spell alleviates for the slightest moment. The bolt of a crossbow whizzes through the air and pierces through the base of the violin. Johann shouts and drops it.

The spell dissipates.

Barry gasps for air like a drowned man, feeling his senses return to him. He sees five leather-clad thugs swarm Johann, jeering in loud voices until Barry can’t see him anymore. But he can hear how punches and kicks make contact with the bard, causing him to cry out in pain. “Put a gag on em before he starts singin’. Start raiding the rooms. Take anything that looks grand enough to be a relic.”

The thug barking out orders turns and sees Barry. “Hey boys. Looks like we got ourselves one more pansy to deal with.” Behind him, Johann has a gag around his mouth and a pair of handcuffs binding his hands behind his back. Half of his face looks swollen, and blood gushes from his crooked nose. A taller woman gnarls her fingers in the tangle of his brown locks and drags him across the floor by the hair.

Barry raises his hands to the air, trying to look as meek as possible.

The good news is that he avoids also being gaged. His arms get yanked behind his back, harsh enough to make him cry out, and his wrists are cuffed together. One of the thugs drags him out of them bed, ordering him to walk. “I can’t walk!” Barry cries out. “I’m paralyzed! I can’t walk!”

He can’t tell if they believe him or not. They just drag him by the scruff of his neck, letting his limp legs drag on the ground, hitting each step down the stairs. When he’s pulled through the store front, he sees all the artificer’s goods strewn across the floor, some broken while others are looted. All the while, two words falls from everyone lips— _grand_ _relic_.

His thug, who he’s sure is named Barbra, picks him up and throws him into the trunk of the battlewagon outside. His glasses fall off his nose, landing somewhere in the trunk as two cries echo around him. “Shit!” Barry squirms, feeling the two people squash beneath him. Above, the door to the trunk slams shut, leaving them in pure darkness. “I’m sorry, I—”

A foot attached to a long leg hits his face, a familiar but muffled voice yelling at him as the person pushes him back and worms upright. Johann. He looks rough. Blood paints a path from his crooked nose, painting a path down his body. One of his eyes is swollen, and he looks ready to choke on the cloth tied around his mouth.

Barry squints, blind eyes adjusting to the darkness enough to notice how tight the gag is. “Uh, I think I can help you with that.” He tries to get upright again, only causing another man to cry out in pain, swearing him to sitting on his chest. Leon. “Sorry, sorry!”

After a few moments of moving, most of it from Johann kicking him to the side as Leon wiggles his way out from under him (there’s not much moving Barry can do without using his legs), the three manage to claim their own corner of the trunk. “Just, uh, lean closer to me,” Barry says. “It’ll be weird, but I can get the gag off.”

Johann glares at him for a moment before doing as he says. Barry remembers being in a similar situation with Magnus and Taako years ago during one of their cycles. Taako had made one quip too many and earned himself a gag to the mouth. And like Magnus did back then, Barry leans in and manages to bite down on the fabric, almost like a kiss, before pulling it downwards. With the cloth now hanging from his neck, Johann spits out the wadded up sock shoved into his mouth. He coughs, heaving as he tries to breathe normally again.

“What in the world is going on?” Leon asks. He also looks like he got a few bad kicks to the stomach and face.

“Hammerheads. A gang,” Johann says hoarsely. “They’re looking for the Grand Relics.”

Leon groans. “Shit!”

Barry sighs. “Well, okay. Could be worse. Are there actually any there for them to find?”

“Of course not,” Leon says. “We’re not stupid to keep them around us.”

“Hey it’s a fair question. I mean, what’s the worst thing they can do then?”

“Kill us,” Johann says.

Barry grimaces. “Okay, yeah. Not good for you guys.”

“Not good for any of us!” Leon cries.

“Well how long until someone notices we’re gone and recues you two?”

“Bane’s in Neverwinter for who knows how long,” Johann says. “So is everyone else on a mission. If they get the relic now, it’ll still take a few more days for them to make it back here and that’s only if they only take trains. The only one who might notice is Douche Bag McGee, but it’ll kill him to actually call once on a blue moon!”

Leon looks ready to cry. “We’re all alone.”

Barry stares at his lap, thinking through his options. Dying is an option for him, but what if the Hammerheads actually use Johann and Leon as leverage to get their hands on one of the artefacts? He can’t let that happen. “There’s a chance I can get us some help,” he says slowly. He feels Johann and Leon’s gazes bore into him as he releases a long breath. “It’s a long shot but… where are we?”

“In a trunk,” Johann says.

“No, I mean, like, on a map?”

“Goldcliff?” Leon says. “Probably heading to the warehouse district. What can you do?”

Barry shrugs. “Maybe get us some help.” He closes his eyes, feeling himself calm. He’s done this every night for the past few months, over a hundred times if his math is correct. If he knows what needs to be done, he can work backwards and figure out the spellwork. “Just try not to freak out, okay?” He focuses on the feeling of Merle, of the serenity that settles over him at night when he can talk to the dwarf. In the great multiverse, he discovers the sensation of dirt under his nails, the scent of dew on leaves, and latches onto it.

In the trunk, his body turns into a mirage of smoke. Leon and Johann scream.

* * *

With a flourish, the curtain pulls back. Lucretia, Julia, and Davenport are ready. They stand side by side, doing their best to look solid as the Wonderland lights flash distracting colors in their eyes. Julia sways on her mismatched legs. Davenport presses his lips together with all his might, afraid to make a sound.

Across from them are Avi, Killian, and Ren—each in a state more wretched than the first. Killian is without her giant crossbow, tired in the face as she tries to look strong. Avi looks even older than before, now solidly in his late forties. Most of his beard is gray, and crow’s feet highlight his under eyes. He squats to be on the ground with Ren, holding her hand as he whispers into her ear. A strip of torn fabric from the bottom of her slacks wraps around her eyes, and she sniffles as her one good ear seeks out sound in the world around her.

Lucretia’s gaze meet Killian’s. She thinks the orc is going to say something, but then she wonders if Killian expects her to speak up first. She never finds out.

Lights strobe. The music kicks to an even more excited beat. Edward and Lydia take a moment to strike a few poses, jiving the audience back up and beyond their original levels of excitement. When Lucretia turns to take in the stands circling the arena, her _true sight_ reveals nothing but wood mannequins watching with unending stares. A sea of humanoid shapes extending arms towards the living, trying to reach beyond an invisible barrier preventing them from swarming the arena. One mannequin with one arm bangs on it, trying to break through.

“Thank you for tuning back into _My Enemy, My Enemy, and Me,”_ Edward says. Beneath the outline of his gaudy cape, Lucretia can see a floating black robe. His true form. “We hope you’re ready for what this next round has to offer.”

“First you saw a harrowing fight between two strong warriors,” Lydia says.

And Edward continues, “Then a nerve wrecking race to disarm an engine by two ace engineers. “

“And now we have a challenge worthy of our two spell casters.” Spotlights appear, illuminating both Lucretia and Ren. Lucretia winces, holding up a hand to block out the glare. She makes out how Avi helps Ren to her feet before she takes her umbrella into her hands and stands strong. Even blind, she’s a powerful wizard to worry about. Lucretia thanks every god in the multiverse that she only needs to land one spell on Edward and Lydia to end this.

“But let’s not forget,” Edward says. “That they’re also the heart of their teams. And that’s a magic in itself.”

Two consoles rise from the floor—covered in rows upon rows of flashing bulbs that dance to the rhythm of the music. They’re back to back, two buttons shining on each. Lucretia shouts when the front of a chair knocks into the back of her knees, forcing her to fall back into it. The same happens to Ren, and the two chairs slide forward until they both are sitting in front of their respective sets of buttons. Ren grips the arm rests of her plush purple chair, trying to orientate herself in a sightless world.

“You must be getting so bored of buttons, but I promise that this one is going to be interesting,” Lydia says.

“The rules are simple.” The Wonderland elves grin into the microphones. “We’ll tell you a crime that someone on the other team has committed. If you think that person should be forgiven, you can hit forgive—but you’ll take a little bit of damage for it yourself. But if you think they should be punished, you can hit punish and the whole team will be doomed.”

“You’re both tied with one point each,” Edward says as the scoreboard with their caricatures appears in time for him to gesture to it. “This will determine who will get the best two out of three majority needed to win the Animus Bell. Choose wisely.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lucretia says. She turns around and can see how everyone from Davenport and Julia to Avi and Killian seem locked in place. No one knows what to do, not when a single press of a button can ruin it. Not when Lydia and Edward can easy punish them for not playing along.

“Trust and forsake.” Ren’s hand tightens around the arm of her chair. “This is just like—”

“Why don’t we start with you, Ren?” Lydia makes a grand gesture with her hand, whipping out of nowhere a stack of cards. “Let’s see… so Julia is guilty of the murder of Governor Kalen. Do we forgive her, or punish her?"

Ren huffs. “Which button’s which?”

“Punish is at the left,” Edward says.

“Lucretia?” Ren tilts her head towards her. “Which is which?”

Lucretia would laugh if she had the guts to. “Forgive is on your right. Punish on the left.”

Ren hits forgive. Black sparks jump up her arm, and in an instant she crying out in pain. She wrestles her hand off. The sparks sizzle out, leaving her pressed against her arm in an attempt to nurse it to her chest.

Before Lucretia can even think to ask if she’s okay, Edward’s voice rings above her. “And now, Lucretia.” He holds up his own card. “According to this, Avi is an ex-member of a battlewagon gang and only left after stealing money from who was then his best friend. Forgive or punish?”

She hits the button for forgive. A spell triggers, and a magical force glues her hand to the button. Black sparks crawl up her arm. A breath later, the pain hits. It feels like an electric shock, a seizure gripping her tendons as the agony rages. She screams out.

Then the pain stops. The spell gluing her in place undoes, and she reels back. Panting, she slouches in her seat, trying to bring herself back to her senses. Before she can, Lydia speaks up. “And now, Ren. Did you know that Davenport advocated for the direct death of an entire planet?”

Fighting through the vertigo, Lucretia pushes herself upright. Can they really see their one hundred year old argument by their bonds to Tesseralia alone? She can’t believe Barry’s bell is that powerful, but she’s also not a bond expert.

Ren’s mouth twists. If the cloth around her eyes were to fall down, Lucretia bets her face would be contorting with a cocktail of confusion and fear as well. But she is a drow and the way her ears flick up and down tells her enough. She tries to look in Lucretia’s direction, but without sight she doesn’t get it quite right. “How? What happened?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Edward scolds. “We never said you could—”

“Oh, piss off and fuck a vermin!” Ren shouts. “If that was a rule you would’ve said it earlier!”

“I’m not sure how to explain it,” Lucretia says quickly. She waits for a glass shark or another _deus ex machima_ to bear down on her, but none comes. “It’s… we couldn’t save them to begin with. The people there—all those souls—were doomed to fall victim to the Hunger. We worried that all that power would make the Hunger stronger, but we found a different solution. We didn’t do it.”

Ren pauses, ears pressing downwards in sympathy. “What’s the Hunger?”

“ _Ren_ ,” Edward sings. “Chose now or we chose for you.”

Groaning, she feels out the buttons for a moment before jamming her fist on forgive. Once again, the black sparks appear. Her agony lasts longer, her screams turning hoarse as more and more pain rips through her. When it stops, she braces herself on the console, panting until her chest bellows like a blacksmith’s forge.

Lucretia reaches out a hand. “Hey, let me help—”

“And now, on the other side.” Lydia flips to the next card. “Oh, you’ve must have already guessed, but here we go. Lucretia, you are aware that Ren has been complicit in the imprisonment of your friend Barry Bluejeans. But, she also abandoned your friend Taako here in Wonderland.” She leers. “Why don’t you tell dear Lucretia all about that now?”

Ren’s still breathing heavily, trying to regain her focus. It gives Lucretia just enough time to form a coherent thought. “You abandoned Taako? Here?”

When Ren moves, her braid of white hair slides over her shoulder. “You know Taako?”

From up on their stage, Edward and Lydia bark their laughter. “You don’t need to act so surprise, Ren,” Edward says through his mirth. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? All those little things about Taako that didn’t make sense? Why don’t you name a few for us?”

Lydia next to Ren, leaning against her arm chair to shove the microphone under her mouth. Feeling her presence, Ren shouts and shoves her away. Lydia laughs and presses a finger to her ear. “Did you hear that back at the station? She says that he’s immune to the thralls.”

“Just like a Red Robe,” Edward says.

“He wouldn’t—”

“Denial is such a sweet drug.” Lydia appears back on the stage, being sure to hold a stance that places her in perfect asymmetry to her brother. “So easy to get hooked on.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Ren says. “He’s not a bad person.”

“We’re not the bad guys here,” Lucretia says. “We never have been.” A spark of anger flashes through her, and it takes all her restraint to swallow it back down. “But what about you? You left him here.”

Ren shakes her head back and forth, voice cracking. “I didn’t want to. He’d cast _charm_ _person.”_

 _“_ On who?”

“ _Me_! He made me leave!” Her hands find her scalp, and she pulls at her hair until the brain starts to fall apart completely. “God, I just—I don’t need to defend myself to you! I know I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Lucretia hesitates. Taako would want Lucretia to punish Ren for abandoning him, but she can’t tell what’s denial and what’s the truth. Wonderland has twist them both together, entwining paranoia with the semblance of fairness. Lucretia wants to slam the punish button and put this game to an end, but what does that make her?

She presses forgiveness.

Pain overwhelms her. Lucretia howls, slumping against the console as it rages on and on. Her vision wavers—blacking out, before slapping her back into focus. She feels like a strobe light flashing on and off, sapping the sensation from her legs until she can’t feel anything but the excruciating torment.

It stops. She gasps, head swimming this way and that. After a moment, she sways out of her chair, collapsing on the ground. Julia and Davenport’s shouting fills the background, but she can’t focus on them. Everything hurts. Her knees ache. Her stomach is sour. A part of herself wants nothing more than to die. When she looks up, she sees how Lydia and Edward crow their delight, being sure to bring the fake audience up to the same level of merriment.

She feels her wand press into her hip. One opportunity for one spell. That’s all she needs. As stealthily as she can, she drags her hand down to her pocket.

“Lucretia?” Careful of every movement, Ren slides out of her chair, squatting down to the prone woman. “Lucy? Are you alright? Are you Lucy?”

She barely hums an agreement when Edward clears his throat. “And of course, Ren. Now it’s your turn. Every member of the Red Robes has billions of lives on their hands. Between creating the Grand Relics to abandoning every place they visited to face certain destruction. But Lucretia in particular has killed a total of three innocent people in order steal and plunder from them. Is that worthy of forgiveness or will Lucretia finally face her punishment?”

Whatever fear or stress that could bring out in her is missing, drowned in the remains of the button's pain. If anything. she's frustrated. The one year keeps coming back, haunting her.

“What?” Ren grabs the handle of her umbrella, her knuckles paling with the force of her strength. She opens and closes her mouth, ears shot upright with fear. “That… how could anyone…”

“I was all alone,” Lucretia says between her teeth. Her hand wraps around her wand. “I had to do things I didn’t want to in order to—” She groans, a sharp ache jabbing her side when she tries to pull her wand out. She loses her grip, and her wand fumbles out of her hand, clattering on the ground.

Ren flinches, recognizes the sound as Lucretia attempting to draw her weapon, and lifts her umbrella. The tip isn’t aimed right for Lucretia’s face, but Lucretia can tell that it’s meant to be. Everyone can.

“Hold on!” Killian shouts.

“Hey!” Julia draws her sword once more.

Edward and Lydia cackle.

Lucretia knows she needs to grab her wand again, if only to deflect whatever attack Ren thinks she needs to launch. But the tip of the umbrella is pointing to the spot above her head, giving her a view of the purple canvas. She can make out its faint designs—diagrams of spells in a dialect of Elvish no one on Faerun has ever seen. Her eyes travel down to the ebony handle. It’s spotless, shiny enough to reflect her face back at her.

And she remembers a cycle, one of the later ones, where Lup’s umbra staff had been sitting on the table and Lucretia had picked it up in order to record every detail into the pages of her journal. Lup playfully calling her a thief before spiriting it away.

Lucretia’s heart is in her ears as she says, “Where did you find that?”

Ren’s mouth tightens as she adjusts her aim to be right where Lucretia’s voice is coming from.

“Did you and Taako find Lup?”

Ren seizes, ears shooting upright. Her aim falters.

“Tick tock,” Lydia says. “You need to decide now what Lucretia’s fate will be.”

A moment passes where everyone waits for the other person to move. Then Ren stands. The tip of the umbrella doesn’t waver from its spot, starting to glow an intense purple as a spell charges. She holds at position for a moment, her ear reaching for the stage as Edward chuckles. “Of course, if you want to—”

Ren whips around, aiming the umbrella at Edward and Lydia. A blast of magic springs forth, deadly purple sparkles aiming straight towards the two elves. They don’t even blink.

The lights shut off.

* * *

Stevie stands on a stool, rocking onto the tips of her toes as one hand holds up the end of a white sheet, the other clipping it to the suspended length of rope. Zigzagging over the deck is rows upon rows of laundry lines billowing in the breeze. They’ve pulled the gramophone back out, this record playing a song with strange sounding instruments. Merle, remember the cycle they picked this one up from, recognizes them as something called electric guitars. Maybe. He’s not sure. None of them really pay attention to the background music anyways, instead focusing on the vocals as Magnus rocks out.

“ _Oh, we’re half way there_!” He picks up the washboard, pressing it to his chest so that he can easily mime shredding at the cords, throwing his head back to belt out, “ _O-oh_ _! Living on a prayer!_ ”

He whips a finger towards Stevie, who almost drops one of Julia’s damn skirts in order to hold the clothespin to her mouth. “ _Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear!”_

And the father and daughter both belt out, “ _O-oh! Living on a prayer!”_

Merle chuckles, turning the ship’s stone of farspeech in his hands. He had to confiscate it from Magnus last night, the man’s incessant worrying over his wife making it hard for anyone to sleep. He’d left them all in a foul mood, picking at his plate as he brushed off Merle’s attempts at conversation without so much as realizing what the silence was doing to Stevie.

And Stevie—what a strange kid. She seems happy now, both she and her dad wearing their kick-around shorts as they make a game out of doing chores, but Merle is bracing for her next big lock up. The moment the smile fades from her face and she clamps up, rigid and silent as she fades in the background.

A guitar solo fills the air, giving an out of breath Magnus enough time to drop his washboard and swoop onto his daughter. “Got you, bear cub!” He picks her up by the middle and holding her upside down, making sure to swing her around as wildly as he can. She screams and laughs. “Merle! I’m going to throw Stevie at you and you’re going to catch her.”

Merle looks at where he sits on the steps, his finished margarita glass sitting on one side, the ship’s stone of farpseech on the other. “No thanks.”

“Coward!” Stevie shouts.

He makes a face. “You’re a coward.”

She copies his face back. “ _You’re a coward.”_

“Hey. Stop being a shit.”

“ _Stop being a shit.”_

“You know, back in my day we showed our elders some respect,” Merle says with a surge of bravo.

“Really?” Stevie folds her arms over her chest, pensive as the blood continues to rush to her head. “Why?”

Merle stares at her for a long moment. Then he looks at Magnus. “She’s your kid.”

“She sure is and I’m going to launch her at you!”

Before Merle can even think to respond, a tugging sensation pulls back the back of his head. He raises a hand, trying to tune out Stevie’s laughter as Magnus swings her back and forth, trying to figure out what it is. It feels like peace and serenity, mixed in with the smell of old books and the harsh chemicals of a lab. Barry. “Oh shit.” He jumps to his feet, reaching over his head to tug off his floral shirt.

“Whoa, hey!” Magnus stops swing her. Stevie covers her eyes from the sight of her uncle’s naked chest. “You’re making this weird, old guy.”

“Barry’s trying to parley with me.”

Magnus pales. “What? Now?”

Merle groans. “Something’s wrong, Magnus.” He throws his shirt to the side, huffing as he sits cross-legged on the ground. “I’ll be right back.” And with that, he closes his eyes and gives into the pull of parley.

He opens them to the soft roar of a beach, warm sand filtering between his toes. He’s on the top of a hill, one made from a century of high tides. Behind him is a familiar line of pastel store fronts—the homely shops of Bottlenose Cove. To punctuate the point, he can make out the red hull and silver sails of the _Starblaster,_ bobbing up and down with the waves of the green ocean.

“Merle?” Barry sits a few feet away, arms bound behind his back. Somehow, sand has piled over his paralyzed legs, as if someone tried to bury him. Without his glasses, all he’s left to do is squint as he tries to make out the dwarf’s face.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Merle scrambles to stand, managing to waddle up to Barry’s side. “Hey, what’s going on? What happened?”

He makes an expression that’s can’t decide if he’s annoyed or erring on the line straight towards panic. “I’m being kidnapped again.”

Barry tells him everything, rushing through the details as if there’s a timer ticking off the time he has left. Not that time passes in Parley. The waves rolls in and out, but no crabs burrow up from the dark sand. Seagulls caw, but Merle can’t see any nearby. It makes Merle itch to get out of there. When Barry finishes, he groans and inches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure how much longer I have until they’re going to open the trunk.”

“Yeah, sure.” Merle grumbles, tugging on his beard as he tries to think. “But you parleyed in front of them? You do realize that you’ve just exposed the one upper hand we have, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Barry pulls at his hair. “But listen, Merle. We don’t have any time left. It’s Goldcliff, remember. You need to take the ship and come get me now. It’s the only thing that’s fast enough.”

“We’re waiting to get Dav and the others out of this place for a mission. We can’t just…” An idea pops into his head. Merle quirks his brows at it, thinking it through. “Huh. Actually, yeah. I can get you out of there. I think I have a plan.”

Barry stares at him. “Actually, send Magnus.”

Merle flips him off. A moment later, he’s wretched out of parlay. The music is turned off. Magnus paces in front of him, mouth drawn straight. Stevie looks like a statue, hiding behind one of the drying sheets as she gawks.

Merle groans, ignoring whatever rambling mess is coming from Magnus’s mouth to rise to his feet on creaking joints. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll explain later. We gotta fly.”

“We can’t fly! Julia—”

“You’re dropping me off in Neverwinter, middle of the merchant district.” Merle can’t help his airless chuckle as he picks up his shirt. “I gotta make a trip to a certain superstore.”

* * *

The lights turn back on, but only the bare minimum of yellow spotlights. The wild hues are missing, stripping the psychedelic masterpiece down to a mere husk of a black room. Lucretia lifts herself upright, groaning as she looks around. Ren is gone. Avi and Killian are gone. Any sign that they were just in the middle of a game has disappeared, leaving her with Julia and Davenport in the middle of a long catwalk. They both look as disorientated as her.

“Davenport,” the captain says, reaching out his hands to help her to her feet. At the sound of his own name, he winces before trying to shove his discomfort to the side.

“Where’s everyone else?” Julia says. She scans the horizon, gasping when she realizes that they aren’t alone. Not quite. A sea of mannequins pushes against the stage, a few reaching out hands to grab onto what parts of them are within reach. Julia has to wobble to the side, avoiding one’s attempt to snatch her prosthetic leg. She cups the sides of her mouth. “Killian! Ren! Anybody?”

They hold their breath.

“Hey!” There, fifty feet away, is suddenly a second catwalk. Killian stands over Avi as he helps Ren. The drow looks like death, and it takes Lucretia less than a second to realize that the spell she aimed at Edward and Lydia hit her instead.

“Congratulations to Lucretia, Davenport, and Julia!” Edward’s voice booms above them, but there’s no sign of the grand stage he and his sister perch on. It comes at them from all around, unfiltered and powerful. “You did it! I don’t know how, but you did it!”

And Lydia says, “Very few people have stood where you’re standing now, having conquered suffering itself to claim their prize. Give them a hand, folks!”

All the mannequins break into applause—a hollow noise of wood hitting wood.

With Davenport’s help, Lucretia struggles to her feet. Both of them draw their wands.

“This resolve, this desire to do whatever it takes no matter the cost to save yourselves— do you know who you three remind me of?” Edward doesn’t wait for their reply. “Us!”

“There were three of us, once, lifetimes ago,” Lydia says. “We had another sibling…”

Lucretia listens. Their story of their dead brother Keats and their journey to becoming liches is hard to ignore. But her eyes keep meeting everyone else’s—Julia, Killian, and so forth—as they wait for whatever hit is going to come next. There’s something they’re missing.

“Eventually, we discovered how to channel suffering to create new garments for ourselves. Fantastic garments!” Edward says. “Then we learned how to channel it into other forms. We could summon small household objects, and then bigger objects, and then finally summoning entire rooms from the ether. That’s how we came up with Wonderland! It’s a perfect centrifuge for extracting suffering from those who, fueled by greed, came to visit us. Wonderland has taken many forms over the past few centuries, but these games are actually kind of a new touch that we’re pretty excited about.”

Lydia says, “And thanks to your Animus Bell, business has been booming lately.”

“This place has always thrived because of, well, what else? Advertising! We’ve got a few consistent channels. Surely you received a brochure in the mail, or saw our billboards or met someone drawn here by a beam of magical light? Those are just a few tools of the trade, and they served us well during our residency here. But do you all know the most successful type of advertising?”

Lucretia and Julia look at each other. Is that a rhetorical question?

“Davenport?” Davenport says.

“I don’t do marketing,” Killian says.

Glee drips off Lydia’s voice. “Let us give you an example. Would you like to see some of our other garments?”

The lights turn colorful once more, spotlights directing their attention to a new platform rising up between the two catwalks. Through the air above it, a metal rod juts out, follow by the unmistakable sound of metal scraping on metal. Hangers teeming with clothes sweep into view, passing by them in a blur too fast to really make out. “Let’s see…” Edward sounds like he's humming. “How about this one?”

The clothes jerk to a stop.

Davenport cries out. Julia swears.

It’s people on the hangers—bodies of every kind with their arms pinned to the metal like suits ready to be worn. Their chins press close to their chests, limp and lifeless. Invisible hands slide a few of the hangers back to isolate one corpse in particular. Taako.

They gasp and cry out, Ren shouting once Avi explains what’s happening. A black hooded figure appears above Taako’s body for just a moment, before sinking downwards.

Taako’s eye opens, bright and full of energy. A cruel grin twists his mouth before he wrestles his arms out of the metal holding him up. His feet drop the few inches back onto solid ground. “There we go,” he says. That's his voice, as airily grounded as it always has been, filling the air as he fixes his blouse and cloak back to their proper positions. He adjusts his wizarding hat, killing time as the metal rod pulls away, taking the rest of the bodies with it. “Ya know, this is one of my favorites. Beautiful. Charismatic. Flamboyant. Just had to fix it up here and there, though I did leave a few marks for character.” He taps his eyepatch.

Taako— _Edward_ —does a turn on the platform, making sure to give everyone a good view. He sends a grin that’s so _Taako_ that Lucretia feels her heart break. Ren snarls. Then umbra staff flies out of her hands. She cries out, scrambling to grab it again, but red sparks of magic sends it to Taako’s hand. “Give it back!” Ren shouts.

“I didn’t summon it,” Not Taako replies. He turns it in his hands. “What is this though? It looks like a piece of—” Red sparks jump onto his hands and he shouts, dropping it into the sea of mannequins. “Fuck!”

“Get out of his body,” Julia says, brandishing her sword. “Or else.”

“But that’ll defeat the point,” Not Taako says. “Like this, we can spread the news about Wonderland by word of mouth. The best advertising available.”

Lucretia raises her wand. She can try casting her barriers around this Taako and maybe starve Edward’s lich form out, but she doesn’t know how possession will affect her plan. She starts charging an offensive spell instead.

Not Taako gives her a lofty look. “Lucretia, you chose skull, didn’t you?”

She freezes, realizing exactly how they’ve amassed such a large collection—what series of events led to Taako’s soul being cast out of his body. “Julia,” she says. “Kill me. Now.”

Julia balks. “What?”

“Bad luck.”

The Animus Bell rings.

It’s like hopping one plane to the next. A violent ripping from that sends every sense swirling to parse the world back into something understandable. Lucretia feels herself roll backwards when a force hits her, and it takes her a long moment to right herself once more.

“You know guys,” she hears herself say. Lucretia snaps back to attention. She’s high in the air, floating far above her body and only getting higher. She watches herself turn to Julia and Davenport, an easy smile on her face. “This actually has been kind of fun. Challenging in a way things haven’t been in a while. Definitely different from all those years on the _Starblaster.”_

That’s her voice, but she’s not speaking. In grayscale, she sees her body move, hands fixing the scarf around her head as if she’s trying to look presentable after a bad stumble. Lucretia cries out, but her voice lands flat. Every part of her is numb as her very essence, her soul floats further and further away. She looks up at the ceiling and sees white figures—frail, humanoid beings with arms that are too long and joints too bent—scurry out of sight on all four limbs. Their eyes are of every species. The Hunger’s spies.

“I need to start traveling the land again,” her body says. The faint outline of Lydia glows around her silhouette—black robed figure moving a limb a second before Lucretia’s body follows it. “The world could use more healers, and I could always tell my patients about all the gold I got here!”

Lucretia reaches downwards, praying that maybe she can swoop in and reclaim her body. But another force drags her backwards. Behind her, reality rips asunder, the world curling away to reveal a beautiful wine-dark ocean filled with bright orbs of light.

The Astral Plane. She’s dying.

“No!” She pushes against it, praying to every god in the universe that her friends will hear her. She swears she sees her body glance up at her, giving a satisfied smile as she’s pulled further and further back. “No, no! Help!”

Heads turn towards her, but not from the living. Many of the mannequins look up at her but now she can see the orbs of souls clinging to their chests, controlling the wooden forms in the semblance of life. Many look away as soon as they see her, but one mannequin’s gaze is relenting. It’s no different from the rest, save for where its arm had been hacked from its socket.

The one armed mannequin looks between her and where Not Taako leers on the platform, spinning his krebstar in an unspoken threat. It shakes its head, as if groaning. The white orb detaches from its chest, and the wood limbs crumble into a pile of lifeless junk. The orb—it’s soul—speeds towards her, unfurling as it gets closer and closer. Lucretia can make out hands. Then a body. Then a face.

“Taako!”

Taako’s soul grabs her hands, pulling her close. “Got ya!”

Relief floods her. Just looking at his form—white lines drawing out his features like a picture—is enough to make her heart burst. His brow furrows in concentration, all his strength pouring into the fight between him and the rift. Yet his lips stretch upwards in a loopy, almost giddy grin.

Then the grin vanishes. The rift yawns wider, the peaceful waters of the Sea of Souls stretching just beyond it. The power in the plane’s draw triples, the forces of the universe pulling them farther from the living.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Taako yanks and pulls, but they both only continue to drift closer to the rift. He looks at their joined hands, then up at her face. A thousand thoughts and prays flicker between them at once—her watching his expression morph into one of somber acceptance.

His grip on her hand tightens.

Then they’re sucked into the Astral Plane, the rift closing behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The McElroys: uses the power of love and smart mechanic-bending to save Magnus from death, resulting in one of the most iconic scenes in the entire show  
> Me, a humble fanfic writer: GOOD LUCK BEING DEAD LOSERS
> 
> In all seriousness, sorry for the long wait between chapters. I had to dedicate a couple of weeks to working on another project, but luckily it's finished now. So now we can focus on this story once again. And thank god for that. This chapter is another dozy in both length and content. Right now, I'm just happy I managed to get this out in time for the anniversary of both taz:balance's start and end and (consequently) my birthday!
> 
> I have a lot I want to say about this chapter, so if you're interested in any of that, be sure to check out my extended chapter notes (and get a preview of the next chapter) here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/177085492561/northern-migration-chapter-19-notes-preview
> 
> And on one last but very important note-- I am endlessly blown away by the response this fic has gotten. You guys pulled all the stops for the last chapter, and I'm just really happy that I can give you all something to be excited about. I just hope that this can be a good enough follow-up for that. Whatever this turns out being, just know that I am so humbled. Thank you, thank you, thank you! XOXOXOXXOXOXO


	20. In Which Taako and Lucretia Go to Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a break from Wonderland. Taako and Lucretia have to prove their innocence. Merle and Magnus are two bros making bad decisions. Stevie sits.

Lucretia feels the air rushing around her, painful as it smacks every exposed inch of her skin. Taako’s hand tighten around hers, the fright and panic roaring in her head too loud to hear anything at all. She has Taako back, and now they’re dead. She can’t stop thinking it. They’re together and they’re dead.

They crash into the still waters of the Sea of Souls.

It’s enough to knock the air out of her, her nerves alight as if she’s fallen into a bed of needles, but her brain kicks in before she can panic. The water is lukewarm. She’s been to plenty of beaches and lakes, and she’s never been in one that’s managed to be as disgustingly neutral as this sea. Keeping her mouth shut, she opens her eyes and looks for a source of light. Motes of lights more numerous than the stars surround her, floating gently in the water’s currents. Each one that passes brings a whisper of a voice close to her ear. A snapshot of a life no longer lived—children laughing, a woman screaming, and man signing a song. Still she keeps her lips pressing tightly together, trying not to pay attention to the burn in her lungs.

A familiar foot almost kicks her face, and she moves out of the way just in time to recognize Taako’s frantic swimming up towards the surface. He thrashes his limbs in every which direction, bubbles of air leaving his mouth like a metaphor for sand spilling down an hourglass. He’s an excellent swimmer, his body calming the moment she sees his head breach the surface. She kicks her legs, following up after him.

The cold air is like a slap to the face. Lucretia gasps, lungs heaving as her chest bellows. Her headscarf is wet around her head, and once she remembers that she has hands, she gets them around the floral fabric and rips it off. Right as she realizes that she’ll have an easier time swimming without her heavy red uniform threatening to drag her down, she hears Taako swallow. “Lucy?”

His hair is a bright blue, the ribbon that usually ties is back long lost to the seas. Chin length, it sticks all over his face, making his brown skin seem richer and his eye seems larger. His eye patch sits askew over his missing eye, as if ready to fall away at the slightest breath. His mouth hangs open for a moment, caught in disbelief.

Through her panting, Lucretia feels a smile on her lips. Tears well around her eyes, and her voice cracks when she speaks. “Taako.”

He surges forward, closing the few feet between them. His arms are around her in an instant, pressing her close as his chin rests on her shoulder. Lucretia freezes. She starts to sink, only for Taako’s grip on her to tighten as he starts treading water for them both. She waits for him to make a snappy quip, something about how bald she is or that he’s already forgotten what her first name is, but he stays silent.

He just holds her, feeling her skin on his as they float in the peaceful waters.

Lucretia brings her hand to the back of his head, smoothing it up and down the wet strands. The strap to his eyepatch digs scuffs her hand. “I’m here,” she says, because it’s the only thing she can think to say. Those tears that had threatened her eyes now spill, disappearing into her wet skin before they can truly take form. “I’m so sorry it took me so long—Taako _,_ I’m here _.”_

He shudders. The water might now be starting to feel a little bit cold. He might just be crying. She doesn’t know, and she knows him well enough to know that she shouldn’t mention it.

This is Taako. She finally found him.

Taako pulls away, a big grin on his face as he holds her cheeks in his hands. Then he gets deathly serious. “We didn’t just have a moment,” he says.

She laughs. “Um, you have to declare something to not be a moment before it happens.”

“Fuck you. Moments happen sporadically. You can’t plan them.” His façade breaks and he starts laughing. It’s a loud, high in the head kind of laugh unique to him. A strange noise comes from his throat as it happens though, and Lucretia wonders if it’s because he’s crying again. Then his face walls, his head whipping around in every which direction. “Is… Are we, uh, maybe dead?”

She makes a noise somewhere in the back of her throat. “From what I remember, souls on this plane go into something called the Sea of Souls.”

He looks down, raising a brow at the orbs of lights drifting below the surface. “Check that off the list.”

“We’re still solid though.” She pokes her own arm, feeling Taako’s arm under her palm. “I mean—we definitely don’t have bodies but we’re not like that.”

“That’s actually because there’s a little process all souls must go through before being allowed access to their eternal sleep.” Lucretia and Taako jump apart, both reaching for wands that aren’t there. Sailing right up to them in an ornate gondola, low and flat as it glides over the surface of the sea. A man with circular glasses stands in the back, guiding a glossy staff in and out of the waters to steer. He’s dressed all black—a billowing cloak on top, a tailored suit beneath. He adjusts his glasses for a moment, his kind look never faltering as he scrutinizes their wet hair and frazzled faces. “You’re Taako De Loop and Lucretia, yes?”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t even blink when Taako calls him something more than vulgar. His hand reaches up, and pulls a book into an existence as if the shelf it sits on is right in front of him. He places it in the air, letting the pages fall open as he sifts through the names. “Let’s see…”

He makes a face, looks down at them, then back at his book. “Wow. Okay.”

Taako tries for an innocent smile, but his teeth grind together. “Is that a good wow, my dude?”

“Definitely.” He snaps the book shut, and it disappears from sight. He reaches for the glossy staff, pulling it from the waters. When they see the curved, silver blade of a scythe appear from the waters, Lucretia shoves Taako behind her. He allows it. The man arcs his scythe through the air in a quick, but flashy maneuver that easily ends with the sharpen edge aimed at their faces. “By decree of the Raven Queen, I hereby arrest you both for crimes against the very laws of life and death.”

* * *

The skies above Neverwinter are spotted with dark, heavy clouds. They sit so low in the air that you could reach your hand above your head and imagine feeling the cold wisps of autumn weather twirl and ebb around your fingers. But sitting even lower in the sky is a ship. Red hull, silver on top. Children in a school yard stall in their play, the hoop they were passing between them rolling to a stop as they watch the shadow of the ship past over the city. Waiting spouses crowd at their windows, holding their babies close to their chests as they see it go by. In the square of the craftsmen's district, a clockmaker is rushing out his doors, tripping over the other startled people before finding the nearest militia man. “What’s that?” everyone seems to be asking. “What the heck is that?”

And somewhere, someone comes up with the answer. “It’s the Red Robes,” a bard says, passing her fingers over the strings of her guitar as she draws the attention of a gaggle of nearby adventurers. “See the hull? See how it glides through the air with the ease of a bird? It has to be a Red Robe.”

These rumors pass from mouth to mouth and, within the hour, everyone in Neverwinter is talking about how the Red Robes’ flying ship sailed over the merchant district, stalling for a moment, before turning around and heading in the direction of the Felicity Wilds. A cleric says he saw a glimpse of a mysterious man in red weaving between the crowds before disappearing into smoke. A few children make up a game where they pretend to be the Red Robes, holding sticks they call Grand Relics. The Neverwinter militia gets tons of reports of people claiming to have seen a Grand Relic in broad daylight, and whatever plans Captain Bane had for the day is thoroughly derailed by trying to verify what’s true and what’s not.

Angus McDonald likes to think he’s a smart boy. He’s impressed that the rumors going around Neverwinter are as true as they are, though he supposes that it’s harder to twist the truth from mouth to mouth when every person is a primary source. But he doesn’t care about whether a Red Robe is in Neverwinter, or if there’s a Grand Relic nearby. What he cares about is where that ship is going.

Armed with a compass, a pair of sturdy shoes, and a backpack of sparse supplies, Angus points himself in the direction of the ship’s departure and starts walking. The Felicity Wilds is only a few hour’s walk away. The trees are too thick to land a ship like that inside, so it has to be parked on the perimeter. With luck, it’ll be within a reasonable distance for him to get to in time.

After all, he is the world’s greatest detective. If he’s going to solve the mystery of what actually happened that Midsummer day, then he’s has to pursue the best lead he has.

Unlike Angus and the rest of Neverwinter, Merle knows exactly why the _Starblaster_ made an appearance above the city. “I can’t tell if this is stupid or kinda genius,” Magnus says, switching his eyes between the control board usually commandeered by Davenport and where Merle packs up his bag of supplies.

Merle makes an uncommitted shrug, double checking that his _Extreme Teen Bible_ is still in his bag and his war hammer is attached to his hip. The lines of laundry still hang over the deck, shirts and skirts billowing dangerously against the wind as they coast over the city. A few clothespin unsnap against the force, sending Stevie chasing after it with determination that’s quiet and frantic all at once. “Just go with it.”

Magnus makes a face. “ _Just go with it_.”

“You know I can still see you.”

“ _You know I can still see you.”_

“Stevie,” Merle says, snapping his fingers at her as if she’s a dog. “Tell your father to stop being an ass.”

Stevie stands still in her spot, mouth opening and closing for a moment. “I—” One of Julia’s skirts flies off the line and whips through the air before going overboard. “Fuck!” Stevie dashes to the side, swearing when she sees the skirt fall to the earth, getting caught in the top branches of a yellowing tree.

“Stevie,” Magnus warns. “Language.” He turns his attention back to his compass and map of Neverwinter, turning the ship so that they can fly over the merchant district. He doesn’t see how Stevie’s face burns. She stomps to the nearest wicker basket, drops the clothes inside with little fanfare, before storming to the door below deck.

Magnus makes one last turn at the wheel, then pulls a lever that stalls the ship in place. “Your move, Merle.”

Merle pulls on his red robe, pulls his back over his shoulder, then takes his bible in hand. “I’ll be back with Barry before you know it.”

Magnus double checks all the controls are in the right settings before scrambling down the stairs of th helm to the deck, just catching Merle right as he finishes preparing a round of _feather fall_. “Hey, so from one idiot to another—”

“Don’t put me in your category,” Merle says.

“But like, Cap’n Port is going to kill us when he finds out.”

Merle raises a finger. “ _If_.”

Magnus nods. “Yeah. I like the sound of that. _If.”_

The dwarf hops a little, trying to reach the top of the rail. Without waiting for permission, Magnus places his hands on Merle’s butt and boosts him upwards. “Wait,” he says, already pushing Merle over the edge of the rail. He hears Merle scream every curse he knows in every language as he plummets downwards. “This isn’t an _if_ situation—fuck!”

Merle casts the spell just in time to avoid hitting a striped awning at full speed. Sluggishly, his body lowers onto the canvas, and he slides down it like a child at play before letting the spell dissipate. He drops the last few feet and tries to land on his feet. Instead, his ankles wobble and he pitches forwards, swearing up a new storm when he rolls over himself and lands right on his ass. “Pan-fucking—”

A halfing man is staring at him, pale in the face as he holds his shopping bags out of reach. Merle squints at him, about to demand what this guy thinks he’s doing staring like that, when he realizes that the eyes aren’t really on his face. They’re on the robe hanging off his shoulders, bright and vivid against the stone streets. The halfing isn’t the only one. A lot of people are frozen in their spots, staring.

“Shit,” Merle says before fixing the most harmless looking smile on his face that he can manage. “Nothing to see here folks,” he says, a hand tugging at his beard while the other shoos them away. “Get going now. You’re holding up traffic.”

He doesn’t wait to see if anyone actually pulls through with his demands. Following the familiar beeping, Merle digs through his satchel, moving aside herbs and Pan-positive pamphlets in order to fish out his stone of farspeech. He fumbles with it, trying to remember how this damn thing actually works, before managing to answer the call.

Magnus’s voice rings clear: “Hey. Are you dead?”

“As dead as I ever will be” Merle grumbles as he stalks his way across the square, making it to the looming doors of the largest commercial building Merle has seen in a long time. It’s a professional shade of khaki, sharp cornered in a way that screams professionalism. A neon sign plasters its side, announcing to the world what it is—Fantasy Costco _._ “I’m going to have to hang up on you. I can’t do much with this damn thing in my hands.”

“There’s a clip you can slip over your ear.”

Merle turns the stone in his hands, finding no sign of an indentation on its smooth surface. “Why did none of ya tell me this sooner?”

“We did old man!”

It takes a few minutes of back and forth before Magnus manages to explain everything there is to know about stones of farspeeches enough for Merle to find the nook that he can dig his nail into, popping off a spiral set of stone that he can slip over his ear. The second he does, he feels the warmth of innate magic stir to life, shooting Magnus’s booming vocals straight down his ear canal. “You got it now, old man?”

Merle winces. “For the love of—don’t make me deaf while you’re at it!” If Magnus says anything in his defense, Merle doesn’t pay attention to it. He just grumbles, pulls his pants higher up his waist, and waddles right through the glass doors of the super store.

He makes it past the greeter, giving a quicker hello before hurrying along. He just needs to find someone with a membership card that just so happens to be returning to Goldcliff. That’s two variables. Not hard to do at all. Of course, the moment Merle thinks it, a shadow appears over him.

“READ THE SIGN, SON. YOU FOLKS AREN’T WELCOMED HERE.” A being with no real discernable shape floats a few feet above him, wearing what could be a frown on its face. Merle hisses and shields his eyes from the eldritch horror as it claps its hands together. “CHOP CHOP! GET A MOVE ON!”

“Hold on, hold on!” Merle shouts, feeling a pain center around his eyes. He can almost stand looking at the being from the peripherals, but just barely. He still has to adjust his gaze away giving his old head a break. “Whatcha got against dwarves?”

“ITS NOT DWARVES I GOT A PROBLEM WITH IT’S RED ROBES. LOOK—” It floats to the wall by the doors, where various items stand on display with loud signs advertising the slashed prices. A metal sign depicts the black silhouettes of a group of people where a combination of red robes and jackets, a giant X crossing over them. “NO RED ROBES ALLOWED. GET LOST.”

He tries for a shrug. “Who says I’m a red robe?”

The being which Merle is starting to guess is the ever-fated Garfield the Deals Warlock (who he swore Magnus said they killed )crosses its arms over its chest. “AHEM.”

Right. His uniform.

“Listen.” Merle holds his hands up. “I am a man of the scripture. All I need is a quick lift to Goldcliff so that I can spread some of that good, good word.”

Garfield chortles. “I SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING. YOU’RE USING MY PERFECTLY LEGAL BUSINESS TO HITCHHIKE A WAY TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE REALM.”

“I can’t tell if you’re framing that as a good thing or a bad thing.”

At his ear, he feels his stone heat up as Magnus’s voice cackles through. “Hey, is that Garfield I’m hearing?”

Merle coughs a very unsuspicious “yup.”

“What the fuck—I thought we killed him.”

“I’LL MAKE AN EXCEPTION JUST THIS ONCE.” Garfield raises a paw and points at the exit. “JUST GO ON AND WALK RIGHT OUT, BROSKI. JUST GET OUT OF MY STORE.”

Merle hesitates. “I just walk out—”

“SHOO! GIT!”

He scurries out, ignoring Magnus’s dry laugh sounding into his ear. When he steps out through the sliding doors, the tightly packed, but colorfully painted buildings of Neverwinter are gone. The temperature is many degrees higher, the ground a slick concrete that’s coated in a gold dust. Skyscrapers yawn upwards, threatening to pierce the sky with their sharp spires. A few other people walk out the glass doors after Merle, swearing when the way they came out disappears behind them.

Ignoring all the people now stranded on the other side of Faerun, Merle grins. “I’m in Goldcliff,” he says into his ear piece. “Step one, slam dunked.”

Magnus whoops. “I can’t believe that worked!”

A huge, more than self-satisfied smile spreads over his face. And, for a moment, Merle just basks in the glory of his plan actually working. Then he hears the blare of a battlewagon horn, jerking him back to reality and why he even needs to be in Goldcliff in the first place. “So…” He tugs his beard. “Do I just ask around until someone just happens to know where the Hammerheads are?”

Magnus is silent for a beat. Then: “We, _mmmmm, w_ e really should’ve thought this through.”

“That’s out of character of you, Mister Rushes In.”

“Fuck you.”

* * *

 

Taako made it three minutes into sailing across the Sea of Souls before the black-cloaked man got tired of his endless yelling. “I’m going to fuck you up so bad!” Taako shouted, his hands bound in black ropes around the wrists. He sits next to Lucretia, bodies cold as the endless sea passes around them. “Once I get a focus, it’ll be game over for you, thug! One poof, and Taako’s going to make you regret the day you were born!”

The black-cloaked man rolls his eyes. “That’s enough from you.” He snaps and, much like how the ropes had appeared out of nowhere, a cloth gag appears around Taako’s mouth. Taako screams and yells into it, growing even more frustrated when all of it is muffled and incoherent. When he tries to kick his legs out, the man easily steps out of the way. Black ropes appear and twine around Taako’s legs, causing him to fall over and squirm on the floor of the gondola like a worm.

Lucretia looks between where he writhes, the black-cloaked man standing over him, and the growing number of ravens perching on the sides of the boat. There’s about ten of them now, silent as a graveyard as they peck at their feathers and keep watch over the still waters. She makes the mistake of looking into one of their eyes, and the gray irises stare back at her with a look that could make her skin invert. She clears her throat, straightening her back into the picture of poised refinement. “I think what Taako’s been trying to say is that we don’t understand what’s going on right now,” she says.

Taako yells something else into his gag, squirming so much that he accidentally knocks his head into the side of the boat. This time, his muffled shout sounds like an Elven swear. Lucretia doesn’t falter, tilting her chin so that even while sitting, it’s like she’s looking down at the man. “An explanation, I believe, is necessary.”

The black-cloaked man meets her gaze in a battle of wills for as long as he can. Then he sighs and turns the tension in his shoulders towards steering the gondola. “Believe or not, but this is what many would consider to be the afterlife,” he says. “You’re dead, and with that comes the reaping of your mortal sins. You both have some of the highest bounties I have ever seen in my time as a reaper.”

“Like the Grim Reaper?” Lucretia says.

He shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not me. That’s the guy I answer to.”

Taako shouts something again, which Lucretia is more than happy to translate. “But why would we have bounties on us, Mister—”

“You can call me Arjun.” The reaper twists his lips. “You have bounties because you’ve both died numerous times and never checked into the Astral Plane. You’ve defied the laws of life and death, and for that I gotta take you in.”

“We…” All the times she’s had to record spent a late night with a blank page of her journal, the quill trembling in her hand as she writes in explicit detail every time one of her friends died. Murder, arson, drowning. The memory of each one burning in her brain— the times she’s had to read over what Davenport or Barry wrote about her own death and add whatever details she can remember before she passed away. She’d convince herself that the memory of each one was all that was going to be left. The scorching reminders during sleepless nights or sudden strikes of anxiety that once upon a time, she’s died.

And yet, here she is.

Taako shouts what she thinks is an explanation into his gag, going on and on until he realizes that no one is paying attention to him. He rolls over, managing to knock his forehead against her shin. An order to explain everything about their century jumping planar systems. Lucretia starts, but the words catch in her throat. She sticks her bound hands between her thigh, squeezing her legs together to hide the way they tremble. Taako sees it, and scoffs the best he can with a piece of cloth distorting everything he does.

“Here we are,” Arjun says, extending a hand behind Lucretia. She looks and the sight steals her breath away. A castle made of black stone stands before her, mounted on wood poles that elevate it over the waters. The longer she looks, the more she can see how disconnected the structure is. Each building is an entity all onto its own, stolen from hundreds of different lands and centuries, many bound to one another with only a wood walkway or a rope bridge. The entrance is a building that dips below the waves, an iron wrought gate blocking the view.

Arjun brings their gondola to a stop before it. He holds out a hand, and one of the ravens lining the boat flaps up to it, perching on his finger. He makes eye contact with it, then gives it a strict nod. The raven takes off, flying in erratic circles around the gate as it caws. With each note, the whining of unseen gears gets louder, and the gate lifts out of the waters.

Arjun smiles. “Welcome to the Eternal Stockade.”

The gondola glides into a chamber made of obsidian, gothic chandeliers illuminating the room with a dim light. Arjun guides their boat to a small dock, barely taking a step onto it when a clear whistle cuts through the air. A shorter blond man comes striding in from a dark hallway, a cigarette balancing between his lips as he shouts, “Holy shit! What didya do?”

Arjun picks up Taako, ignoring the way the elf writhes and shouts as he throws him over his shoulder. “I just picked up the greatest bounty of my career.”

The blond looks between where Taako’s legs kick against Arjun’s chest and where Lucretia sits on the boat, mum. He grimaces. “A court was ordered. Her holy majesty is requesting their presence.” He holds out a hand, and a raven caws before landing on his wrist. Arjun leans in, brows raised as he watches the bird fluff its feathers before making another caw.

Arjun scowls. “Of course.” He looks down at Lucretia and gives her a wry grin. “Looks like you two are going to get that trial you were asking for. You’ve summoned to the Raven Queen’s court.”

Lucretia finds her voice. “Is that a good thing?”

He shrugs. “Depends. How do you feel about necromancy?”

The Eternal Stockade, it seems, is far larger on the inside than it appears on the outside. Arjun carries Taako their entire trek through the darkly lit hallways, a hand resting on the back of his knees while another holds up a flaming torch to light their path. The blond reaper whose three hobbies seem to be smoking, talking, and smoking while talking keeps a hand on her shoulder, guiding her down the proper hallway as he goes on and on about things that don’t really meet her ears. She thinks he says his name is Cooper, that he has an incredible backstory if she would only ask, but her head is loud with the static of her own thoughts.

She looks over her shoulder multiple times, trying to catch a glimpse of Taako. He’s stopped trying to talk through the gag, but the kicking of his legs and the rocking of his torso is endless. Arjun doesn’t seem to mind, mouth pressed together as he studies the world behind his glasses. Once, when Barry was still employed by the Miller family, he told her about the consequences being a lich would bring him in this plane. The Raven Queen here is as feared and brutally shrew as the one on their home plane, but this time there’s enforcers to support her word. The reapers are her presence made real, though many simply believe in only one. The Grim Reaper—Death himself, stalking the realm for those who dared to defy her holy word.

Her throat tightens. The fact that she and Taako are dead once again hits her once more. The fact that Julia and Davenport are still in Wonderland fighting back against suffering makes her chest ache. That Lup is still suffering a fate worse than death while Barry languishes in enemy hands.

Her brows settle, stern on her face as her frown turns into something strong.

It’s with her head held high that they walk into the courtroom. Except, it’s not a courtroom at all. It’s the grand ballroom of a monarch, the reflective black stone turning from intimidating to an inviting elegance. People of all races and ages fill the chamber, their laughter dying down once they see the two reapers escorting her in. Everyone is dressed in clothes from different time periods—the wrapped gowns from a civilization ago, the mass produced shirts and slacks from an age yet to come. Intermingled in the throng are the reapers in black uniforms, many of which who don’t wear dark cowl at all. Some wear only suits or jackets, some hijabs and ponchos. As long as it’s black, the goddess allows it.

There, sitting at a throne at the other end of the ballroom, is the Raven Queen herself. For a moment, brilliant light blinds the celestial being from Lucretia’s eyes. But as suddenly as it appears, the light dispels, leaving in clear view the figure of a woman twenty feet tall. Her gown is an intricately decorated black, layers upon layers piling on top of each other until Lucretia isn’t sure what’s flesh and what’s fabric. A black veil drapes over the raven skull resting over the goddess’s head, destroying any hope of seeing her face.

“Kneel,” Cooper hisses, nudging the middle of her back as Arjun places Taako on the ground before him. She kneels with slow dignity, less as a show of respect and more to get closer to Taako. As subtle as she can manage, she tilts her head and meets his gaze. He’s glaring, ready to pick a fight with the first person dumb enough to take off his bindings.

“Your majesty,” Arjun says, pressing his hand to his chest. Cooper copies him, and they both bow their heads in respect. “I bring before you Lucretia and Taako De Loop—two mortals from the Material Plane who have managed to evade returning to the Astral Plane upon death numerous times.”

A flock of ravens perch on every available nook of her black wood throne, their heads turning to scrutinize the two mortals. A raven hops off the arm rest, gliding down to Lucretia and Taako. Lucretia freezes, watching as it pecks Taako’s head, squawk when he jolts against it, then hops over to her. She lets the raven stab is beak into her ankle, biting a lip to stave away a yelp.

The raven caws, then jumps back to the goddess.

 _Indeed. These are two mortals who have defied my laws for far too long._ The goddess’s voice sounds like the lonely dripping of water in a cold cave, the silent nights spent wide awake in anticipation of an attack. Cold and electrifying. _Lucretia, one born with no name to bear onto her descendants. Tell me: will you face the punishment for your crimes with grace?_

Lucretia looks up, wearing a face a century of exploration carved into existence. “Neither Taako or I did anything wrong. If you’d just listen—”

The Raven Queen lifts a hand, ignoring Lucretia’s indignant noise. _Tis a shame, Lucretia. Grace becomes you and would make—_

“Excuse me!” Lucretia snaps to her feet, ignoring the murmur of astonishment rising from the spectators. She sees the goddess give pause, hears Taako’s shout to utter delight. Cooper grabs onto her arm, trying to yank her back but she only shakes him off. “I wasn’t finished.”

 _And what force assures you that the words you would speak would be worth my time?_ The Raven Queen says. _Your soul cannot hide the trespasses you have made. You have already proclaimed your own guilt._

“I have done many things I’m not proud of. Taako I’m sure can say the same. But evading death? That wasn’t our choice. There are extenuating circumstances you know nothing about. ” She stands a little straighter. “They said this was a court. I can infer now that it’s perhaps more of a royal court than anything, but even you have to be aware of what a legal court is.”

The goddess makes a noise that can be a laugh if it hadn’t rung so hollow. _You demand a trial?_

“We can prove our innocence.” Lucretia gestures between herself and Taako. “We’re innocent.”

She considers it for a moment. _Very well. It would do me no harm to humor your request._ She turns to one of her ravens. _Summon my Grim Reaper. He shall speak for my laws._ The raven caws an affirmative before launching up into the air, soaring down the crowd of people until it’s out through the doors.

The rooms changes, but not in the way Wonderland bend and turned in nausea. It’s a skip in the record, one that summons two tables from nothing. She stands behind one with Taako, whose bindings unravel from him one by one. “Oh god.” Kneeling down to him, she gets her hands on his sides to help him up.

He hisses. “Holy shit…” Face contorting, he shoves her aside so that he can stand and scan the crowd. “Hey! Where’s that bastard with the bondage kink? I’m gonna fuck you up!”

“Taako!” Lucretia snatches his hand and drags him down back to the ground.

“I’m gonna—”

She slaps him. “Taako, shut up.” He blinks rapidly, the side of his face smartening with the outline of her hand. He places his palm over his cheek, muttering a harsh swear. “Listen—I love you. You’re amazing and I would die for you. But if we’re going to have any chance of making it back home, we’re going to have to not piss off every person in this room.”

He snorts. “You already mouthed off a goddess. Which, if I do say so myself, was fucking hysterical to watch.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

He throws a hand up to the table they crouch behind, as if to remind her of all the times they’ve had to hide from enemy fire with hastily discovered barricades.

“Astute observation.” Her hands fit easily on his slim shoulders, as if they were meant to be there. “Listen. I need Professor De Loop right now. Not the Taako who doesn’t care what people think. Professor De Loop. We have to teach them to be on our side. Does that make sense?”

He frowns. “Fuck. I forgot about that…” He looks down at his nails, picking at dirt that isn’t there. Compared to some of his other nervous ticks, this one is benign. It’s an excuse to break eye contact so that he can think through his options. “Yeah. Alright. Professor mode turning on up.”

A raven caws. The steady background humdrum tampers off, every reaper in attendance wearing a mask of professionalism as the large doors on the other end of the ballroom swing open with a thunderous bang. Lucretia and Taako rise back to their feet, both leaning over to look down the aisle breaking the crowd asunder.

This man is different from the rest—his scythe still in hand as his black Basotho blanket drapes over his shoulders like a proud display of rank. Beads glint on the ends of his braids, the front sections pulled into a bun behind his head to reveal a strong jaw. A few whispers rise from the crowd, a quiet commotion equal parts gossip and intrigue: “the Layman.”

The moniker repeats with each of his assured steps, somehow getting louder when he passes their table. He gives them a small glance, stoic as he pauses before turning back to his goddess. “My queen.” He kneels, the hand pressing deep into his chest, his voice thick and stilted with an accent that yanks and chews on every word. “I heard your call and came to answer.”

_You are late, Kravitz._

The Grim Reaper, Kravitz, dares to look up at her, a smart smirk on his lips. “Pardon my tardiness then. I was caught up in an investigation on the Material Plane.”

His answer satisfies, and the Raven Queen addresses the room. _A trial has been asked for, and so it shall be given. My Grim Reaper shall speak for me and my laws. These malefactors will speak for themselves. Let us witness what we can only hope to be the first display of innocence to make itself known in my halls._

The crowd shouts their agreement, causing Taako to roll his eye as he leans into their table. “So much for innocent until proven guilty,” he says.

_Malefactors. Identify yourselves._

Before Lucretia can think to make a good impression, Taako gives Kravitz a short wave. “Hey. It’s me, Professor Taako De Loop. This here is my not-as-esteemed colleague Lucretia who is a, uh, master writer and the fanciest person I’ve ever met.”

Lucretia has no less than ten dry remarks she wants to make to that, but the eyes of the goddess keeps her mouth shut.

Kravitz moves to the other table, pulling into existence a thick book. Despite only just hearing what he needs to do, he’s calm and confident as he opens to a chosen page. He scans the inked words, brows jumping up. Then he clears his throat. “Lucretia. The record shows that you have died fifteen times and failed to report to the Astral Plane for each. And Taako De Loop—Taako, Taako, _Taako_.” He snaps the book shut. “You have died a total of ninety-seven times. And you’ve never reported to these halls. Not once.”

Lucretia gives him a sideways look. “Ninety-seven?” she whispers.

Taako waves a hand in her face. “Long story. Time loops and all. Blame Magnus.”

“My queen” Kravitz says. “These are some of the highest bounties I have ever seen. I don’t see how these transgressions can be explained by anything other than necromancy of the foulest kind.”

Taako slaps his hands on the table. “Objection! Neither of us know necromancy. How can we be necromancers when I’m a transmutation wizard and she’s a bard?”

Lucretia makes a noise, as if she’s about to explain she’s not really a bard or any kind of class for that matter, but Kravitz is already retorting, “You’ll be amazed which mortals discover ways to defy her majesty’s laws. As a master of your specialty, surely you understand how many of the studies of magic overlap each other.” His grin is nothing less than cocky. “Isn’t that right, professor?”

Taako presses his lips together, a hand braced on the edge of the table as his whole body tenses. Lucretia sees this, and takes over with a sigh. “We’re not necromancers. We’re explorers.” She turns her attention from Kravitz, instead addressing the surrounding crowd directly. “We’re not from this planar system. We’re from a version of this world that’s a hundred years away.”

Faces turn to each other, conspiratorial whispers stirring through them. She can tell that most don’t believe her, but she didn’t expect any to quite yet.only needs them to listen, let her sow a seed of belief in their heads. She doesn’t expect the Raven Queen herself to speak up. _You would be wise to reconsider telling falsehoods in the presence of a goddess. I am not ignorant. Your god, Pan, told me of a laughable tale involving the status of one of his followers on your plane. Do you think me foolish? Naïve to believe his story, one built on a bardic tale no child would believe?_

“I’m telling the truth,” she says. “I’ve never heard of anything about Pan being involved in our situation, though one of our friends is a cleric under his domain.” She holds up the lapel of her robe, flashing the circular insignia for the room to see. “We’re part of the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration. We were a group tasked with traveling to other planes in our system, but this being called the Hunger—”

Kravitz snorts. “I have been the Grim Reaper for many centuries now. Yet, that is possibly the worst lie I have ever heard.”

“It’s the truth, darling,” Taako says in a nasty sneer.

“You have to believe us,” she says. “You saw the eyes in the sky at Midsummer. That’s its scouts. The Hunger is coming here, and it will consume every plane in its path.”

Taako pauses, mouthing out the shadow of words as the meaning of her words hits him. He looks at her, his fingers curling until his nails scratch into the wood of the table. “It found us?”

She stares back at him, hollow inside as her heart drops. “Oh gods,” she whispers. How long has Taako been trapped in Wonderland?

_What foolhardiness to believe a lie that neither can agree upon._

Lucretia rips her eyes away from Taako, looking up at the giant. “It’s not a lie. You’re a goddess, aren’t you? If you can see our souls, can’t you tell that much about us?”

“You’d have to be an idiot to believe all that bollocks.” Kravitz’s mouth is drawn in a smooth smug that makes Taako break from his stupor with a groan and curse. “Supposing that there even is planar systems beyond our own, no celestial being would ever allow mortals that kind of free reign. The Material Plane must be kept separate from the Plane of Reason and so on.”

“All the things I would give to blast the asshole right off ya,” Taako says, a razor point to his movements as he leans into the table. “Say, let’s talk about your credentials, homie. I have ears that just so happen to work and I couldn’t help but to hear that little, uh, moniker they all got for you. Why are you the layman, _hm_?”

Kravitz blinks. His expression darkens. “This isn’t about me.”

“Riddle me this—why is the Grim Reaper the guy everyone says is not a part of the whole religion thing going on?” He gives the crowd a theatrical shrugs. “It’s a little fishy, isn’t it?”

Kravitz’s face is tight. “Would you like to discuss fishy, Professor De Loop?” He pulls the thick book back into existence, letting magic lay the spine flat to his chosen page. “You’ve died ninety-seven times, making you the second highest bounty I have ever laid my eyes upon. Both of you are very clearly powerful and capable in your own ways, and yet this just so happens to be the one time you willingly go into the Astral Plane? What reason do we have to believe that this is not part of some greater scheme?”

Taako laughs, high and strained.

Kravitz glances down at the page. “Merle Highchurch, Magnus Burnsides, Captain Andrew Davenport, Lup and Barry Bluejeans—these names all appeared in my book one day, all with extraordinarily high bounties. Are these your co-conspirators?”

“They’re our teammates,” Lucretia says. “For our mission—”

“One we’ve concluded is impossible.”

“Hey. Why are you barking up our tree, punk?” Taako glares at him. “We’re only your second biggest. You got bigger fish to fry.”

“Rest assured, I am working on that,” Kravitz says, though he turns to the Raven Queen as he does so. A reassurance that this is a job he can do. “An entire town ranking up a collective death count in the millions is also grounds for a thorough investigation.”

For the first time, Taako’s ears press downwards.

Kravitz sees this. Very carefully, he turns the page. “I sent a few reapers to do a preliminary search a few months ago,” he says. “And a particular name is attributed to the apparent freak incident that caused this. A drow by the name of Ren—”

“God, I’m gonna—” Before he can finish, Lucretia’s hand is on his arm. He bites back his words, nails scratching the top finish on the table. Then his ears flick upwards, his back straightening with them. “Fine.”

He turns to the goddess. “You want proof? You want the big scoop on what’s been going on around here? Fine. Taako’s baring it all. It’s a hot shot exclusive on all you need to know about Taako De Loop’s life. It’ll tell you everything you need to know about us, our _co-conspirators—”_ He makes quotation marks in the air. “—and why a town has died multiple times. One time offer, though. And more reliable than whatever layman there gots for you.”

Kravitz ruffles. “Pardon my boldness, my queen, but it would be unwise to place any kind of stock into what these people have to say.”

“Aw, is _poor_ _little_ _Kwavitz_ getting insecure.” Taako gives the Raven Queen his most charming smile, ignoring how Lucretia lingers at his side with such a stoic face that she has to be having a silent meltdown. “You’re a feared goddess, right? Live up to it.”

The Raven Queen tilts her head to the side. _Intriguing. Surely you are the grandest fool to have ever laid eyes on me. When the god Pan made mention of a group of explorers, one cannot expect more competence than this._

Taako bows, soaking up applause that is not there.

_I will offer you a wager, Taako De Loop. You say that you are not a necromancer, that the circumstances of your bounties is beyond your control. My Grim Reaper, the greatest of my bounty hunters, will experience your life the same way you have. If he can verify your claims, then I will accept your flimsy excuses. If not, then your souls shall be mine._

Taako turns to Lucretia, arching a brow. She thinks it over for a moment. “No omniscience. This has to be done as if he’s a real person really going through these things.”

_My Kravitz will go in blind, sliders around his eyes._

“Then I think it sounds fair.” She gives him a soft look. “You sure you want to do this, Taako?”

He shrugs, walking out from the table to meet a very disgruntled Kravitz at the half way points between their tables. “Don’t got much of a choice.”

She reaches over, managing to get a fistful of the back of his shirt. “Just… just be safe.”

He huffs, but it lacks malice. “No sweat. This one’s in the bag.” Her fingers uncurl, and he’s free to stride to the halfway point. Kravitz holds his blanket close to his shoulders, a scowl on his face as he looks Taako up and down, taking in everything from the earrings tracing a line down the side of his ear to the metal tips of his heeled boots. “Like what you see, thug?”

Kravitz looks away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 _Kravitz._ The Raven Queen holds out a long arm, the fabric of her gown draping around her like sweet icing. A single, black feather is pinched between two fingers as a white light imbues deep into its core. _Take this piece of my plumage. With it, you may walk in the shoes of another._

A raven sweeps by, plucking the feather from her hand and drops it over Kravitz’s head. Without looking, he reaches up a hand and catches it. “Give me your heart.”

“Not interested,” Taako says.

Kravitz bristles. “You want this spell done?” He accent breaks for a moment, lapsing into something less outrageously old and more the voice of a normal guy. Before Taako can get a moment to question it, the Grim Reaper steps into his space, pressing a hand over the left side of his chest.

Taako grabs his wrist and yanks him away. “Whoa, whoa. Hey. Ask a fella first.” His expression shifts. Taako’s nails dig into Kravitz’s skin, but neither seem to notice. “Listen. You walk in my shoes, you do what I do.”

“That’s not how this quite works.” And there it is. That accent is back.

“I have a sister. What I do…” He looks away. “ _Capisce_?”

Kravitz huffs. “Do what?”

“It’s on this side.” Taako moves Kravitz’s hand, pressing the man’s cold palm into the right side of his chest.

Kravitz opens his mouth, prepared to speak, when he feels Taako’s heartbeat fast and hard. He tenses, his opposite hand twirling the feather between his fingers. Clearing his throat, he channels pure white magic into his hand. “By decree of the Raven Queen…”

The noise cuts from his throat, his mouth hanging open. Kravitz’s eyes turn as the white magic well around Taako’s chest before traveling in straight lines back onto Kravitz’s hand. Taako flinches, about to takes his hands off his wrist when the lines of magic move quicker, disappearing under the sleeve of his suit. They reappear moments later, crawling up the column of his neck. The lines diverge, an equal amount pooling into each eye.

Taako tightens his grip on Kravitz’s wrist, holding his breath as he watches the white consume his vision, leaving two beacons of light glowing on his face. Distantly, he can feel his brain tickle, the shadows of a lifetime flitting through his consciousness. His feet feel uneven for a moment, as if he’s standing on the rocking caravan boat. Then he’s aware of all the eyes in the room staring at him, and he’s racing to remember what his lecture is supposed to be on today. Lucretia’s words come back to him, and all he can think about is the Hunger and how it came, how it always came within a year and now it’s back and they’re going to have to run again—

Kravitz gasps, wretching his hand from Taako’s grasp. He stumbles back, sweat drenching his face and chest as his pupils dilate, coming back to focus. Panting, he stares at Taako with an expression that could be fear. Except Taako is sure that isn’t it. It’s many emotions too numerous to name fighting for space on Kravitz’s face.

Shaking, Kravitz turns from Taako and lowers into a kneel. “M-my queen.” He gasps for air like a starved man, all façade of a thick accent leaving him completely. “My queen, they’re telling the truth.”

The room ruptures with noise, the spectators talking among themselves of what this can mean. All around, ravens caw and crow. The Raven Queen doesn’t bother address the noise. _Kravitz. Be wise in your decision—_

“They’ve been nothing but truthful!” Kravitz rises to his full height, swaying from the effort of it all. Taako almost reaches out a hand to help him, only to take a step back himself. “These people—they’re, I… I don’t even know where to begin. I saw all of it. The destruction of their home, a sheer coincidence damning them to be responsible for the fates of hundreds of planes. Apocalypse after apocalypse—”

_Information like that has no bearing on your verdict._

“Then what does?" Kravitz is shouting, his voice booming around the room like a thunderclap. Lucretia rushes from the table, joining Taako by his side as they watch the Raven Queen grow stiffer from his words. “They’ve died over and over again so that we could escape…” He grabs at his braids, swearing. “The Hunger’s coming. It’s coming in less than a year—”

_Do not fall victim to the trickery Pan has tried to play on us gods, this discussion of the end times and those who have stopped it before_ _._

Kravitz glares. “We shouldn’t be persecuting these people. We should be helping them! They’re going to be only ones who can help us when—”

_This is no longer your decision to make._

“You cannot go back on your word!” he bellows.

_To believe the word of Pan—_

“You’re being ridiculous!”

_And you will watch your mouth in the presence of your goddess!_

The ballroom shakes with the force of her words, sending many of the ravens flocking to the air with rancorous noises. The chandeliers hanging above sways dangerously, and the torches lining the walls threaten to go out. And yet, Kravitz only straightens his back, moving so that he’s the one thing bulwarking the goddess from Taako and Lucretia. “Send these two to the Eternal Stockade and I will no longer be in your service.”

At that, the Raven Queen gives pause. _Are you so easily swayed?_

“This is about so much more than just a bounty.”

The Raven Queen is silent.

Kravitz pushes further. “Lady Istus has given the elf her blessing with the promise to take on all seven as her emissaries. You extinguish their lives, you will have to deal with your sister’s wraith.”

 _To even claim that the mistress of fate deals in fury…_ The Raven Queen leans back. She lets the atmosphere grow tense more once, the tensions rising as all wait to hear her verdict. When she speaks, it’s like lightening on skin. _Your lives will be extended until midsummer. When the sun is eclipsed, your souls will be mine to do with as I please._

“Then we die?” Lucretia says.

The goddess ignores her. _Should the balance of our world be disturbed or the planes be laid to waste, whatever these consequences are said to be, it shall be your head, Kravitz. You will have no existence to waste in the stockade. Is that agreed upon?_

Kravitz places a hand on his chest and bows his head. “Gladly. Thank you, my queen.”

As the onslaught of renewed whispers from the crowd suggest, that is all that needs to be said.

“Do you even have a brain?” Taako says, watching as the Grim Reaper summons his scythe from where it was resting against the table. It flies through the air, meeting his outstretched hand. “You’re actually going to stake your life on a bunch of idiots like us?”

Kravitz raises his brows, motioning for them to follow him down the aisle between the crowds. “I know what I saw.” His accent has returned.

With a tug from Lucretia, Taako follows after him. Everyone stares at them, some with sheer shock to see the Grim Reaper of all people doing this. Others are just suspicious, glaring at Taako and Lucretia as if they’re the devil incarnate.

Once through the ballroom doors, Kravitz lets them swing shut behind them, leaving them alone in the dimly lit hallway. Each step echoes down the empty chambers, each reflection of noise seemingly louder than the first. Lucretia runs her hands over her head, feeling the smoothness of her buzzed scalp. “We both owe you our thanks. You didn’t have to do that for us.”

Kravitz tenses, but he tries to hide it under a shrug. “I know what I saw.” His eyes flicker towards Taako, sparkling with such light that it makes Taako huff and look away. “I think I had no choice in the matter. I saw some impossibly incredible things.”

“But it’s your life,” Lucretia says.

“If I’d left it alone, it’ll have been everyone’s lives.” He gives them a cocky look, placing both hands on his scythe. “Of course, with that comes many conditions. It’s my head on the line and I intend on ensuring I don’t lose it. But we’ll deal with that when we deal with it.”

Taako snorts. “Great.”

Kravitz smirks, his eyes sparkling. Then he coughs the expression from his face, focusing instead on raising the scythe high in the air before bearing it downwards again. Under the silver blade, reality peels back, showing them an overhead view of Wonderland—the crowd of wood mannequins, their bodies possessed by Edward and Lydia as they fight their friends. “Now. Let’s get you two back into the fight.”

* * *

 

Stevie slams the door to her room shut, and she hopes that her dad can hear it. She stands at the door, glaring as she waits to hear his feet come stomping down the stairs, yelling for her to calm down and don’t slam doors. She waits and waits and waits. It feels like forever, but she can see her clock on what used to be Aunt Lup’s desk tick away a mere thirty seconds. She gives it another ten seconds, but still Magnus is nowhere to be seen.

The idea of kicking the door out of frustration comes to her, and she waits for the urge to do it overwhelm her. It never comes. She kicks it anyways.

She feels the _Starblaster_ lean to the side in a turn. She squeaks as she sways, stumbling over her feet until she catches her footing once more. She pauses. Now she’s just here, standing as she feels _something._ Anger, yes. She’s furious, burning up from it like a wick. But when she tries to even think about what’s making her angry, her head gets jumbled up. She’s angry at her dad, then Merle, then this stupid ship for knocking her over.

A part of her is angry that she can slam and kick the door and no one is going to notice, yet she can’t stand the way everyone hovers over her. She misses home, but she wants to stay on this grand adventure to save the world.

She smashes her hand on the desk, the force of it rattling an old mug in the corner holding pens. _Fuck Gender, Eat Bread,_ it reads in shades of pale pink and blue. Stevie stares. She could pick it up and throw it. Maybe her dad will hear that.

She reaches out, her fingers about to grab the white handle when it disappears. The wood of the desk turns into a darker shade, the bright lighting of her electric headlights turning to the soft glow of gas lamps. Behind, the cackling of a fire.

Stevie freezes, holding her breath. This is wrong. Something is wrong.

“There we go.” It’s a man’s voice, calm and satisfied as he brushes his hands together. “As long as I don’t attempt to change our setting, this should be more stable.” A pause. “Why are you standing like that? There’s a chair right here. You can sit.”

Bit by bit, she turns.

Her little room on the _Starblaster_ is gone, replaced by her family’s workshop. The walls are lined with her dad’s woodworking tools, a few choice creations mounted on the walls. An orange fire ignites the hearth, giving the cold room some semblance of heat. Beyond the purple curtains, she can see a wintry, Candlenights’ evening marking up the windows with crystalline designs. She remembers the nights when they knew it would snow too hard the next day for her to go to school. She’d try to stay up for as long as possible, insisting that her mom and dad marvel her with stories of their heroism. They’d always do it in the workshop, where they could more easily rearrange the benches and tables to fit the scene, boards of scrap wood acting as stand-in swords and shields.

And, sitting at the work bench, is the man from her nightmare. He’s still cleanly put together, his tailored suit a pristine ebony. Bits of the multicolored black-stuff still sits on his neck like a scar, glimmering in the light like oil. He gives her a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, raising a hand to show her the chair on the other side of the bench. “You don’t need to be shy. Right here now.”

Stevie looks at it, then back at his face. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. She closes it.

“I’m John,” he says. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I just want to talk.”

Stevie sits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where to begin with this chapter. I probably should've made this multiple parts, but this arc of the story is already pretty damn long. We need to speed things up. I hope putting everything about the astral plane in one chapter is okay. In my head, this all takes place at a different pace of time than what's going on in Wonderland (which we'll get back to next chapter), hence how the Merle and Magnus scene is a really short segment of time that technically overlaps with what Stevie and Angus are doing. 
> 
> I'm going to go more in depth with this in my chapter notes because, honestly, this is a lot. Too many things happened here, and I can go on and on about all of them. Like always, the notes and a preview for the next chapter are posted on my tumblr here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/177635277181/northern-migration-chapter-20-notes-preview
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who's come this far in the story. We're 20 chapters in, Kravitz is only now being introduced, and we still have a long way to go. Whether your a new reader or a long time follower, your support means everything to me. You make this story worth all the effort, and I can only hope to give you guys even more stuff to get excited about. So once more, thank you! XOXOXXOXOXOXOXOOX


	21. In Which Barry's Bell Is Reclaimed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for our heroes to defeat Wonderland once and for all! Merle attempts to rescue Barry. Stevie and John have a small talk. It's an extra long finale to an arc that should've ended three months ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** violence and some mild gore. The latter warning is mostly for the Barry scenes because he, Johann, and Leon all get fairly beaten up during it. It's mostly blood, but just be careful since it starts right away.
> 
> Also, I'm going to give a second set of warnings for the Stevie and John scene in this chapter. Don't worry, no physical harm is going to come to her. But she is a ten year old talking to an older man and, as you can probably guess, he does manipulate her. I know that for a lot of people, something like this is more than just uncomfortable. I want to clarify that this storyline is not going to end badly for Stevie. This is going to be something that she triumphs through. Even as this fic errs towards darker material, Stevie is going to be alright in the end. I'm NOT going to betray the source material by having things go horribly wrong for a ten year old. This story is overall going to have a happy ending. All that being said, if you do not want to read the Stevie and John scene (which there is no shame in) feel free to skip it. I'm going to put a description in the end notes of what happened.
> 
> Without further ado, here is the chapter!

Lucretia reels back. Julia shouts, lunging to catch her before she can fall. But the arm she wants to extend is gone, the sleeve of her shirt dangling loose at her side. Not that it matters. Lucretia catches herself in an instant, straightening with an air of elegance that fits her. She flexes her fingers, stretching out her arms to study their slender lengths, a smile creeping upon her face as she takes in black room. “You know guys, this actually has been kind of fun. Challenging in a way things haven’t been in a while. Definitely different from all those years on the _Starblaster_.”

Julia watches as Lucretia fixes the scarf on her head, stomach dropping. By her side, she hears Davenport whisper his name, his eye wide as they both see a flash of an outline—Lydia, laid over Lucretia limb-for-limb, possessing her body. “I need to start traveling the land again,” Not Lucretia says. “The world could use more healers, and I could always tell my patients about all the gold I got here!”

Across the way, Killian and Avi watch the scene unfold with the same growing horror as the circumstances of their situation reveals itself fully. Ren has her hands on Avi’s arms, trying to get back to her feet as her one good ear searches the air for any sign of what’s going on, of what Not Taako on the middle platform is about to do.

Swallowing, Julia tightens her grip on her sword. “Yeah, okay. Sure. But we came here for the bell.”

“The bell!” Her hands press into her cheeks, overdramatic shock looking strange on Lucretia’s jaded face. “You know, it’s such a dangerous thing. It’s probably safer here where no one is going to get it.”

“Davenport,” the gnome captain says, his hand on his wand. His voice is low and commanding, and it takes all his self-restraint to not wince at the sound of it. But he needs his tone to cue Julia into the barest bones of his plan. He’s down a hand and an eye while Julia’s unsure how to move on a prosthetic leg—especially when she now only has one arm to balance herself with. Across the way, Killian has no bow and Ren is blind and one-handed. Everyone from Avi to Julia herself is bruised and bleeding, standing now only by sheer will power alone. It’s five broken people against two powerful liches in the bodies of two equally powerful spell casters. They have no advantages.

Julia looks down at him, lips pressing together as if there’s something she needs to hold back. She shakes her head before it can slip, raising her sword at Not Lucretia. “Yeah, I don’t think so. How about you skip town and give us our friends back.”

“Yikes.” Not Taako twirls his glaive around his fingers, wincing. “The thing is, like, you can either walk right back into Wonderland and keep going or we can kill you. It’s your choice.”

“ _Dav-en-port_ ,” Davenport warns again.

“Oh yeah?” Julia glances towards Killian. Neither of the Wonderland twins are paying attention to her and her crew, giving the orc the freedom to dish out quick and quiet instructions. Her eyes meets Julia. After a moment, she gives a curt nod. Julia grins. “Try me.”

Above, the black smog of Wonderland’s suffering made physical coalesces. A giant steel beam the width of two men and the length to connect the two catwalks together forms, hanging in the air just long enough for everyone to see it loom. Then it drops.

Julia grabs the back of Davenport’s collar, lunging to the ground in time to roll from the beam’s crush. She pulls herself up, a hand reaching for her sword. Except, her sword was in her hand, and she had to drop it in order to grab Davenport. The dust settles around the steel beam, the dawning realization of her mistake hitting her. “Fuck!”

Across the way, Killian grabs Ren to get her away from the beam. She only has to run a few steps, Avi at her side as they hear the beam make thunderous contact with the catwalk. “Avi!” Killian shouts, and without looking, he unsheathes his sword and tosses it to Killian. She catches it, readying herself to slash at whatever hit Not Taako and Lucretia are going to throw next.

Avi jumps off the catwalk, hitting a mannequin in the face as he lands in the middle of the fake crowd. When the fake hands try to grab him, as if they want his body for themselves, he launches a hard punch to their faces. Without thinking, he throws a slugger with the arm with the missing fingers. As his sloppy feet position and wild throws suggest, his fighting skills doesn’t come from adventurers and knights. He’s a street brawler, and he’s learned to be quick on the recover, throwing another hit with his fist as he searches the ground for Ren’s umbra staff.

Not Taako sees all this and smirks. “Hmm. This is going to be interesting.” And he extends a hand into the air and snaps.

* * *

Statistically speaking, not every plane in the multiverse is a good one. There’s planes where tyranny has ruled for so long the people there consider it normal. Lands where no plant can sprout from the soil and flourish, leaving the ground barren, teeming with sloppy mud that can swallow a person whole. But often times, planes are just gray. Neither good or bad, just a place where multifaceted people exist. And, if Barry has learned one thing, it’s when there’s an opposite side to the coin that things often get dicey.

The heel of a boot pins his head to the floor, forcing his mouth to breathe in the pool of blood from the leaking wound in his head. It’s shallow, but head cuts tend to bleed a lot, and much of it waterfalls down his eye, obscuring his vision. Not that he can see much. His left eye is swollen shut, that half of his glasses irreparable. He can feel the broken glass press against his cheek, but it doesn’t hurt. The foot ramming into his gut over and over again does. He wheezes, biting into his lip so hard that he’s bleeding from there as well. But this isn’t the first time he’s ended up on the wrong end of some fucko’s ire gone painful, and he can keep his head clear enough to know what to do. He knows to compartmentalize the pain, not even think about answering their demands. And if he dies, then he dies.

Johann and Leon? That’s a different story.

Leon’s trying to talk sense, sitting upright in his binds as he presses his back as close into the corner as he can, as if to cower from the threat of being hit. He’s a little scrappy to look at, but since he’s the only one with loose lips, the Hammerheads aren’t beating him up that much. One of them is just kneeling before him as he toying a knife in front of Leon’s face, letting the threat of what he can do make Leon talk himself in circles. “I don’t even know about the Grand Relics,” Leon rambles. “Like, that’s not actually true because everyone’s heard of them, but I’ve never heard of them!”

And Johann screams. Two thugs with nasty looking bruises is taking unfiltered glee in beating the guy into the ground, not giving the bard the opportunity to use his voice for any of his inspirational magic. The longer they kick and beat, the more Hammerheads take their focus off of Barry—it’s not fun to beat a handicapped man, Barry thinks wryly—and turn their enthusiasm onto Johann. The poor guy keep shouting, crying out in pain as his beating gets worse and worse.

It’s not until the thug pressing their heel into Barry’s face leaves that Barry gets a chance to breathe. He curls into his stomach, hissing when he feels his ribs protest. He can’t tell if they’re broken or just bruised. Doesn’t matter. Barry puts those worries into a box and stories it onto a nice shelf in the corner of his brain. He’ll come back to it. Right now he needs to keep it together long enough for Merle to come rescue him.

They’re in a battlewagon garage, the guts of one of the wooden behemoths laying bare for the world to see. The walls are made of metal plating still warm from the desert heat, the ground a dusty concrete that makes Barry’s bones ache. On the far end of the warehouse, the doors are pushed open, allowing the cooler night breeze to sweep in along with whatever Hammerhead so choses to stroll inside for a casual glance at the violence.

Every member of the gang is more interested in Johann than either him or Leon. Many just glance at where he and Leon are tied up before joining the crowd circling the bard, all shouting encouragements as Johann’s shouts of pain turn into pitiful whimpers. Barry’s head is fuzzy, his mouth tasting of copper, and it takes him longer than it should for him to figure out why. A long time ago, Avi spent an afternoon telling him about a battlewagon race he went to where they had to escape the Hammerheads by having Johann use inspirational magic against them. It seems like everyone is holding a collective grudge.

“Hey, boss!” A bunch of the thugs break from the circle, rushing to the side of a man and woman. They both sport the signature jackets, but theirs is emblazoned with more patches than everyone else. Unlike their underlings, they even have bits of sharkness lingering in their features—the man with razor sharp teeth, the woman with hair styled to look like a shark fin. “We gotta keep this one.”

The woman raises a thin brow, peering over the circle to see who they’re beating. She grins wickedly. “That’s the bard.”

The man at her side, who Barry is starting to think is her husband, nudges her a bit. “Don’t think anyone else gots some kind of bard on their team.”

“Maarvey, you are a genius.” She pecks his cheek, and they both give a wave that sends the thugs hooting and hollering back to their circle.

Barry squints at the two bosses, trying to decipher what any of this can mean, when he sees the crowd fragment, opening up to reveal two burly men lifting Johann up by the arms. Johann’s head rolls to the side, his mouth open as he struggles to remain conscious. He’s all but carried to a chair on the other side of the garage, the men strapping his wrists to the arm rests. It’s when Barry sees a caged helmet be brought out that a strike of panic cuts through him.

He should box it away. Wait until it’s all over to really consider what’s going on around here, but when he hears the loud clicking of the helmet being locked around Johann’s head, he can’t anymore. Groaning, he fits his hands under himself and pushes upwards. “Hey, wait…” He coughs, and agony erupts through his chest. No one notices. He pulls himself up against. “Stop!”

A boot strikes his face. He’s back on the floor, the dirty sole crushing into his cheek. “What you think you’re doing, bud?” Maarvey sneers, bending down low to spit on Barry’s bad eye. “Got a problem you want'a share?”

Barry does his best to glare, but his face doesn’t want to cooperate. “I know about the Grand Relics.”

Maarvey laughs. “Oh, really? Now you wanna talk? What’s a punk like you know about that?”

“That you want them for something Anything.” The heel bears deeper into him, and Barry cries out. “I can tell you everything you need to know. I know all about them!”

“Uh-huh.”

Barry swears his face is on fire. He doesn’t like that he can’t see what’s happening to Johann. “I made them! I’m a Red Robe!”

The foot disappears, and Barry gets a moment to believe everything is going to be okay. Then hands grab his shirt, forcing him up to stare into Maarvey’s face. Beyond, he can see every other thug in the garage staring at him, waiting to see how this is going to turn out. “Whatcha say, punk? You’re a Red Robe?”

“I swear I—my robe! It was by the bed. One of you saw it!”

Maarvey looks over his shoulder, a brow raised at his underlings. They all shift uncomfortably, their attention finally off Johann, muttering among themselves as they try to remember if there was one there or not. Barry almost groans, cursing the incompetence of henchmen, when he sees it. Up, in the beams supporting the ceiling, is a dark shadow. The outline of a person, perching in the corner, away from sight as they sport a raven mask over their face.

Barry chews his lip, forcing his eyes away from them. It’s not Merle—he knows that. But this could be help waiting for the right moment to strike.

A young teen comes sprinting into the garage, his face flushed from panic as he skirts around the gutted entrails of the battlewagon and straight towards Maarvey’s wife. “Boss! There’s this dwarf at the gate sayin’ he’s some kind of Red—”

Like a wall of sand spilling into an open chamber, a cloud of buzzing black dots flushes in the room. Thick and noisy, swarming around everyone’s faces until there seem to be more bugs than air. Barry keeps his mouth clamped shut, trying so hard not to laugh as he recognizes the spell.

_Insect plague._

* * *

Music pumps through the room, the gaudy lights flashing to life to the rhythm of the song. Julia swears, feeling the thumping base batter against the beat of her heart, making her stomach twist and turn. The lights all but strobe in her eyes, and she has to tell her brain that the world isn’t skewing in a bizarre direction. Before she can even thinking about getting her bearings, she sees Not Lucretia lift her wand giving a little twirl before summoning forth one of her signature barriers. It’s faint black, brimming with the dark magic of the liches.

It rushes forward. Julia wrestles the shield off her back, feeling Davenport close to her leg as she braces for the hit. It comes with the force of a cannon ball, almost knocking her off her feet. She grits her teeth and leans against the barrier, attempting to push it back. Davenport has his wand out, looking about ready to cast a spell that will go under the barrier and straight towards Not Lucretia. Right before the maroon magic to shoot off, he whirls around, and aims for Not Taako.

The barrier switches trajectory, racing to block the bolts of lightning meant for the wizard. Not Taako doesn’t even notice, already casting a spell that summons a phantom stead—this one a skeleton of a horse painted in a pattern of neon pinks and green. He jumps onto it, and with a manic grin bounds into the crowd of wood mannequins. He gives no care in the world over which of the dolls he destroys along the way, charging instead at Avi.

“Move!” Killian shouts, and Avi manages to punch one last mannequin before diving out of the way. Not Taako rears his phantom stead, laughing before letting the horse bear its hooves down onto Avi. The man swears gets his hands up over his face, trying to roll out of the way. The stead stomps, and a hoof hits his shoulder. He screams, feeling his bone crack. When the stead lifts up for another flurry, Avi rolls out of the way.

With shield in hand, Julia bolts. She jumps onto the steel beam, dodging a blast of magic from Not Lucretia, before leaping right into her space. Her prosthetic leg wavers under the force, and Julia finds herself sliding onto the ground. She fights it for a moment, then lets the momentum carry her the last few feet, putting her in perfect range of Not Lucretia’s legs. Julia handles the shield the same way she wields a sword, swinging its side right into Not Lucretia’s knees. The strike hits, and Not Lucretia falls onto the ground.

Julia jabs her prosthetic knee into Not Lucretia’s gut, pinning her in place as her other leg keeps her balanced. An ugly scowl drenches Not Lucretia’s face before melting into something much sweeter. “Are you sure you want to hit me, Jules?”

“Fuck you,” Julia says before bringing the shield downwards. A satisfying spurt of blood leaks down Not Lucretia’s lips, and she raises her shield to do it again.

A black tentacle wraps around her wrist. Then the other one. Julia only gets a moment to gasp before a dozen black tentacles are grabbing onto every limb, pulling her off the possessed woman. From the other side of the beam, Not Taako lowers his glaive, a smirk on his face as he watches _Evard’s black tentacles_ rip Julia off his sister and drag her down into the clawing crowd of the mannequins. As he watches, his phantom steed stills, finally giving Avi the opportunity to get back onto his feet. His shoulder looks janky, but he doesn’t let that stop him from grabbing onto Not Taako’s legs.

Not Taako swears, almost dropping his glaive. Black-colored magic gathers around the focus, but before he can launch it off, a five-volley maroon _magic missile_ hits his phantom stead. The magic dissipates and with nothing to sit on, Not Taako falls to the ground.

Davenport lowers his wand, panting as he watches Avi throw a hard slugger at Not Taako’s face and hears the satisfying smack of contact. Then he hears Not Lucretia’s laughter. On the other side of the beam, the mannequins are not only attempting to rip Julia’s body apart, but a tentacle is wrapping around her throat and tightening, choking the air form her lungs. “Davenport!” he shouts, starting to run for her. He makes it to the beam, only to realize that its twice his height. With only one hand, he can’t climb his way ontop.

“I got it!” Killian leaves Ren by the base of the beam, hopping onto it so that she can sprint to the other catwalk. She barely looks in Davenport’s direction as she snags the back of his collar and lifts him onto the beam. She points back at the drow, saying, “Watch her!”

He scowls, but Killian continues her sprint towards Not Lucretia and Julia before he can object. Ren keeps her hands on the beam for dear life, trying to maintain some sense of where she is as her half-gone hearing tries to decipher what’s going on around her. “Davenport,” he says like a swear before running towards Ren.

Killian stops in her tracks, bracing her feet in time to block a bolt of magic with the flat of her sword. She lunges forward, and Not Lucretia lets the blade slice through the meat of her arm. Then she waves her wand and summons a collection of small black barriers that launch straight at Killian. She slashes at them, breaking their magical structures before they can hit her face. But it comes close many times, and her husks dig into her upper lip as the flurry of miniature barriers starts to become more numerous than she can deal with.

Davenport runs down the beam, making it only a few feet before he hears a creak above him. He glances up in time to see the body of the glass shark plummeting from the black smog, coming straight down onto him. He shouts and jumps out of the way, and the shark breaks into a million pieces on impact. Before he can get a moment to breathe, the detached console with two button comes crashing down, and on his hands and knees, he scrambles away from the crash zone. He’s not fast enough.

The console gets the very tip of him—his right ankle crushed until the mixture of metal and mechanics. His scream is strangled, his voice wanting to form the incoherent noise into something resembling his name. His hands shake as he holds up his wand, biting back the agony of his shattered bones in order to cast something that will get this thing off him before something else tries to get the rest of him.

Ren keeps her hands on the steel beam, feeling the vibrations of each impact meet her hands. Her ears twitches and turns, trying to sort through the onslaught of noise for some sign that her friends are okay. She can hear Killian’s grunts as she parries, the console’s crash with Davenport’s agony. And she hears Taako grunt as a fist meets his cheek.

Not Taako stumbles back, dragging his sleeve over his bloodied mouth. Avi takes a second to peel back a wood mannequin getting too handsy with him, making sure to kick it over so that it’ll crash into the newest crowd of them going for his body. Then he surges towards Not Taako, fitting both of his hands behind his head. He pushes the elf’s face down and brings his knee up, smashing the two together. Not Taako cries out, crumbling to the ground. A mannequin jumps onto Avi’s back, fake arm wrapping around his neck in a strangle. Not Taako picks up his glaive, and casts _blink._

He disappears from sight, leaving Avi to be a victim to the hoard of mannequins. “Shit!” He purposefully falls backwards, crushing the one on his back so that its arm will release. He starts kicking at the legs of the ten approaching him, knocking down as many as he can. The lights above him shift and change—spotlights of every color light up in his eyes until he’s sure he’s blind. He turns his head to the side. And he spots it: the purple canvas of the umbra staff.

He rolls over, struggling to his feet. Keeping his head low, he barrels through the crowd, pushing them aside until he can swoop down and scoop the umbrella into his hands. “I got it!”

“Great!” Ren shouts back.

A pop fills the air and she can suddenly hear the heavy breathing of another person standing very close to her. “Hey, Ren.”

She swears, turning to where she thinks Not Taako is standing. She hears his slow steps, can practically sense the steady raise of his glaive. “Let’s talk about that time you left me, _hm_?”

A blast hits her diaphragm, and the air is kicked out of her lungs. She crumbles, knees hitting the glowing catwalk as she hears Not Taako get ever closer. Then a steel-tipped boot kicks up into her face, sending her back with a cry. “Oops,” Not Taako says. “I hope that didn’t hurt too much.”

“Ren!” Avi tosses the umbra staff. It lands on the catwalk, sliding the last few feet until it’s in range. She falls forward, hoping that she can cover it before Not Taako gets the idea of kicking it away from her again. When she feels the crooked handle dig into her chest, she knows she’s more than lucked out.

“And what are you doing to do with a piece of shit like that?” Not Taako places his foot on her neck, applying just enough pressure to pin her in place. He bends down to her, blue hair brushing the side of her face as he sneers, “You’re just a washed up evocation kid. What can you do now that you’re blind too?”

“Ren!” Another hoard of mannequins gets their hands on his arms and chest, this time too many for him to knock away easily. He shouts again before feeling one of them pull him onto the ground where all the lost souls can more easily attempt to rip him from his own body.

Ren shifts, managing to get her hand under herself. Her fingers brush the handle, only for painful sparks of red to jump onto her skin, making her grimace in pain.

“The sad thing is you did this to yourself.” A _mage hand_ grabs her braid, yanking her upright once more. She keeps her hands on the umbra staff, ignoring the rejecting sparks of painful magic as Not Taako guides the hand to hold her hair at the most pain-inflicting angle possible. His foot returns to her neck, trapping her between him and the steel beam against her back. “You didn’t have to sacrifice all that stuff, but you did. Because deep down, you want to be bled dry. You love being the martyr. ”

Ren lifts the umbra staff, casting _magic missile._ Except, all of her magic falls off the hooked handle—useless.

Not Taako barks a laugh. “What kind of piece of crap is that?”

On the steel beam, Davenport manages to cast a _mage hand_ powerful enough to lift the console a few inches. He slides his foot out, wincing when he realizes that it’s stuck at an unnatural angle. He’s not dumb enough to think he’s going to be able to avoid walking on it before the day is over (it’s more likely he’ll have to sprint for his life on it), but he doesn’t want to think about how much that’s going to hurt.

Right as he’s freed, he hears a new creaking sound above him. Knowing what’s about to happen, he scrambles onto his feet, gasps, and hobbles onto the other side of the console. From the black smog plummets a metal engine made from spare parts found in a junkyard. It crashes with a stunted noise, bolts shaking as the magic core inside threatens to shatter entirely. Davenport stares for a long moment, unable to believe his luck. It’s the engine he built for his round—a simple bond engine with one very significant difference. If tweaked in certain places, it’ll feast on the suffering of those around it.

Davenport looks over his shoulder, sees where Ren is pinned to the beam by Not Taako. Killian’s orders ring through his head, but the engine could take out the entirety of Wonderland completely. Grunting, he slides closer to the engine, using his wand to unscrew bolts and reveal the inner workings. He has to break the game.

Gasping for air, Ren tightens her grip on the handle, fighting through the pain it causes her. Leon told her that umbra staffs have special ability of consuming the magic of defeated magic-users, so maybe it’s just out of juice. She presses her hand onto the canvas, streaming as much of her magic into it as possible.

 _Seeing_ isn’t the best way to describe it, especially when she doesn’t have the eyes to do that anymore. When her magic reaches into the depths of the umbra staff, she suddenly knows of the woman. An outline, a silhouette of a soul mingling with a collection of other magicks. The woman has no real form, but Ren can feel it. She can feel the wet trails of tears inching down the woman’s face.

“Well, doesn’t matter.” Before Not Taako even finishes the sentiment, a burst of black magic strikes her gut. She cries out, her flow of magic tapping out for a moment as she curls into herself. Not Taako laughs again, saying, “get up, Ren. Aren’t you going to fight me?”

She doesn’t answer, only fitting her hand onto the canvas once more. Please. She imbues her plead into the power she gives the crying woman. I need your help.

He huffs. “How about I spell you up? How’s _charm person_ sound?”

The flashing of a memory strikes her—the moment Taako set her escape from Wonderland into motion. Ren tenses, trying to focus on anything but the dawning horror of having to be put through that again. But she’s not fast enough. Instead of asking for help, her magic shows the crying woman the last time Ren saw Taako.

The woman looks up.

At first, it’s warmth. A steady temperature rising through the canvas and ebony, rising up until it soothes Ren’s clammy palm. Then it’s heat. Unbearable, scorching heat. Ren just manages to get her hand back onto the handle when the tip of the umbrella raises by its own accord. The heat stretches deep into the sinews of Ren’s arm, traveling through the fibers of her being until she can feel it all around. Building, gathering until she feels ready to explode. It feels like magic she’s long since forgotten, something destructive but healing.

The heat flushes out of her, unfurling in a shockwaves that sends a breeze through Wonderland. Ren gasps. She knows where everything is now. She’s still blind beyond repair, but it’s the same sensation as discovering the woman in the umbra staff. She just _knows._

And she knows that Edward is standing before her in Taako’s body, sick smiling dropping off his face as his glaive stops charging a mind controlling spell. The tip of the umbrella aims for his dropping face, and a satisfied smirk can’t help but to form on hers. “Three, two, one,” she says. “Let’s go!”

Together, she and the umbra staff launch their first attack.

Killian yells, jabbing the point of her sword forwards. With no effort at all, Not Lucretia raises a barrier that makes the blade skip away, taking a methodical step to the side just to be safe. Behind her, _Evard’s black tentacles_ still rage on, the oily tendrils squeezing Julia’s neck until a weak noise leaves her mouth. She’s blue in the face, the frantic yanking of her bound arms and kicking of her tied legs getting weaker by the second.

Spikes of panic risings up through Killian. She knows what she needs to do, but Not Lucretia won’t let her get close enough to help, and time is only getting shorter by the instant. Every step makes the wound in her leg bleed even more, blood finding more swatches of pants leg to soak through. The music bangs her eardrums.

She needs a way to make it past those barriers.

Killian reaches into the bag of holding strapped around her waist, rummaging through it until her hands find a bundle of her specialty bolts. “Hey.” She pulls them out, revealing each one to be modified to hold a small pack of dynamite. She scratches her nail on her wrist band, causing a spark to jump into the air and onto one of the fuses. “Catch!”

And she tosses it in Not Taako’s direction.

Not Lucretia immediately summons forth another barrier, this one on the opposite catwalk around Not Taako. It gives her the time to barrel forwards, grabbing Not Lucretia by the waist and throwing the both of them onto the mass of eldritch tentacles, and into Julia in the process. A few of the tentacles rip, Killian’s hulking form crushing Julia onto the ground. She makes a strained noise, the tendril around her neck only growing tighter. But the binds around her hands are gone, and she immediately digs her nails under it and tries to loosen it’s hold. The tentacles pick Killian off of her, Not Lucretia calmly walking out of the mess as her brother’s spell refuses to hurt her.

The lights above flash a different color, and Julia can see how the ground glitters with shards of glass. The remains of the glass shark. She smacks a hand on the nearest shard she can grab, the ragged edges eating the flesh of her palm, and brings it to the tentacles strangling her neck. She cuts it away, black ooze squirting into the air and onto her shirt when it falls off completely. She gasps, lungs aching as air fills them up. Her vision is in dots, yet she can’t give herself too much time to think it over. She rolls around and cuts away the tentacles around her ankles and scrambles away before it can grab her again.

She struggles to her feet, the joint of her prosthetic leg creaking in a way that makes her more than a little nervous. A moment later, Killian jerks her arms down and rips the tendrils apart by sheer strength alone. She drips in black ooze, _Evard’s black tentacles_ finally taking enough damage to dissipate. She picks up her sword and Julia’s shield, looking them both over for a moment before tossing the sword to Julia. “You’ll use this better than me.”

Julia catches it by the hilt, a crooked grin on her face. “Sounds fair.”

“Does it now?” Standing on the cat walk is Not Lucretia, her head tilting to the side as she looks down at them. “How about we raise the stakes a bit then?”

The ground below Killian’s feet heats up for a moment. She jumps away as a column of flames erupts upwards, stretching high to the ceiling. Taking advantage, Julia rushes in. She climbs back onto the catwalk, immediately swinging her sword at Not Lucretia. And, of course, Not Lucretia blocks it.

Davenport feels the heat of the flames, swears that even at this distance his moustache is chard, but he pushes it aside. Even with one hand, half-blind, and no tools, he’s managed to get the majority of the engine ready. He just needs to realign the magic core. He shoves his whole wand into the engine, focusing on the spell work to change the fuel from bond magic to suffering. “What the hell.”

Nose leaking with blood, Avi pulls himself onto the steel beam, making a pained noise when it jostles his broken shoulder. He looks wretched, beaten and scratched by the mannequins who want his body. “What the hell are you even doing?”

“Davenport,” Davenport replies, then winces. Damn it.

Even though his face is aged and swollen, Avi clearly looks torn. “It’s—” The sounds of Ren shouting, followed by the booms of dangerous magic, fill the air. “Okay, shit. Fine. You probably have a plan. Don’t fuck it up.” And with that, he climbs over the crashed console and sprints towards the catwalk.

If Ren knows one thing, it’s that the umbrella is going to be the one thing that’s going to get her out of this alive. She keeps her hold ironclad, letting blasts of magic strike her when the alternative would be risking losing her grip. She bends in a crouch, sliding backwards as her fingers brush the ground for balance. _Stoneskin_ gives her dark skin a gray sheen, keeping the majority of Not Taako’s attacks against her nonlethal. But her mind is scrambling to think of a spell to use that isn’t evocation, and she can sense that the woman in her umbrella is getting impatient with her lack of counterattacks.

The brim of Not Taako’s hat flutters with his magic as he casts _immolation._ From the black sparks comes flames that wreaths Ren. The flames burns her clothes, singes her hair, but her umbrella inverts and swallows most of it up. It converts the magical flames into _investiture of flame_. Brilliant light dances around her skin, blinding Not Taako long enough for her to freely cast _ice knife_ _._ An icicle resembling a flat chef’s knife juts forward, slicing a bloody line through Not Taako’s cheek.

He hisses, eyes turning deadly.

“Ren!” Avi jumps off the steel beam, already raising his fists to fight.

Not Taako grins. “Try this.” And he casts _crown of madness._

Avi pauses, eyes blinking before glassing over with a swirling fright. Swirls of magic coalesce over his head, a thorny crown weighing heavy on his forehead. Anyone looking can see where his skin is pricked, lines of dark red blood slipping down his face. Even with the umbra staff's magic, Ren can’t tell what’s going on. “Avi?” she says.

At the sound of her voice, he screams and lunges for her. He knocks her to the ground, trapping her under his weight as he claws at every part of her skin. She yelps and screams, trying to clutch the umbra staff as close to her chest as possible. He grabs onto it, growling and shouting like an animal as he tries to wretch it from her grasp.

Not Taako watches this with a smirk for a moment, then raises his glaive to charge a spell. “Goodbye, Ren.”

On the steel beam, Davenport feels the sweat drip down his brow as the magical core of his engine putters pathetically.

On the opposite catwalk, Julia and Killian weave around Not Lucretia, every blow from sword and shield being met with an indifferent shield or a light cut that earns then nothing more than a jaded shrug.

The lights in Wonderland shut off.

Not Taako lowers his glaive. “What the...”

Not Lucretia maintains a barrier in front of her to reflect Killian and Julia’s attacks, eyes aimed upwards in the darkness.

Watching.

Waiting.

“I’ve got to say—this is quite the little set up you’ve got here.” The voice is deep, ancient and imposing. A single light turns on, and a skeleton in a tattered black cowl hovers a hundred feet in the air, a scythe in one hand. Two orbs of white light buzz next to him like flies. “Unfortunately for you, the Raven Queen doesn’t take too kindly to those who defy her laws.”

“Shit,” Not Lucretia says.

In the hollows of the skull’s eye sockets, red orbs glow. “By decree of the Raven Queen,” the Grim Reaper says. “I hereby sentence you to a permanent sentence in the Eternal Stockade.”

Julia seizes her opportunity. She dodges around Not Lucretia’s shield, stealing her moment of distraction to stab her in the back. The blade goes right through her chest, blood staining her red robe a darker shade. Somehow, Not Lucretia still has the power to turn her head, a furious look in her eyes.

Julia grins. “Get out of my friend’s body you undead fuck.”

* * *

With the horde of insects consuming the warehouse, the world tumbles into chaos. The Hammerheads all but scatter, their yanking accents demanding to know what is happening and who’s done it. Maarvey keeps his grip on Barry’s collar, holding him upright even when locusts land on his cheeks and move their antennas over his skin. “You.” He strikes Barry across the cheek, sending his already broken glasses flying to the floor. “What didya do?”

Barry scrunches up his face, squint as he tries to make sense of the living storm he’s standing in. He thinks he can see the hue of Merle’s robe on the other side of the plague, all the way on the other side of the thick, but he’s not sure. He shrugs, tensing as he waits for another blow. “I didn’t do anything.” He arches a brow. “Or did I?”

Maarvey hits him again.

“Keep your horses!” Maarvey’s wife shouts, grabbing onto the collars of every thug that tries to run past her. She doesn’t hesitate to strike them across the face, shoving them towards a chest in the corner that must contain their weapons. “We’re under attack. Defend yourselves!”

“Barry?” Merle’s shape can be made out more clearly, a hand held over his face as he wades through the plague.

“Merle!” Barry earns another strike to the face for that one, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Get him!” At her shout, twenty thugs rush forwards, bats and knifes raised as they head straight for the dwarf.

Merle swears, fumbling to crack open the worn spine of his _Extreme Teen Bible._ A bright colored tab marks a page in the middle, and he slides a finger down to find the passage he wants. “I cast _Guardian of Faith!”_ Brilliant green light beams from his hands, rocketing upwards until joining into the tall, imposing shape of Della Reese.

“Motherfucker!” Barry squints, fighting through both his bad eye sight and the thick cover of bugs to see the dark figure at the ceiling beams jump downwards. A cord is attached to her waist, allowing her to swing in a circle. Heeled boots strike the heads of unsuspecting thugs, forcing them onto the ground until she lands. Adroitly, she tugs on the cord a certain away and the harpoon in the ceiling beam detaches, falling right into her hand.

Barry doesn’t know where to look. He tracks Merle hiding behind Della Reese, summoning whatever spells he can muster while the guardian does her best to fend off the mob attacking her. The girl in the raven mask moves with jagged jerks, punching a man’s face before having to adjust her feet so that she can flip him over her shoulder and into two teens trying to jump her from behind. It’s when she’s taken out ten different leather jacket punks does she get the moment to rush to the wood chair, deftly undoing the locks on Johann. She frees his hands and legs, then manages to get the caged helmet off. His head rolls to the side.

“Get up,” she says. He blinks, only half conscious. She slaps his face. “Bard, get up!”

Maarvey lets go of Barry’s collar, and he hits the floor with a yelp. He rolls up his sleeves. “Hey! Whatcha think you’re doing in these parts, Raven?”

The Raven stands so that she’s between him and Johann, a cocky push to her hips. “Kidnapping’s above you jackasses. Ain’t it, Maarvey?”

“Yeah.” He cracks his knuckles. “Why don’t you just settle on down and get moving on out before something bad—” The harpoon shoots by his face, just only missing his cheek before embedding into the wall. The Raven runs in after it, gauntlet reflecting the hanging lights as she winds up a slugger. He dodges and responds with a punch of his own.

A variety of swears filter through the air, and Barry adjusts his attention in order to see a spot where the bugs had thinned out, many of the thugs standing in horror as they gawk at an empty spot on the floor. “Holy shit!” one of them shouts. “Where’d Jimmy go?”

Merle gives a light laugh as Della Reese swipes a long, holy lance through the air. The thugs scramble out of its range. “It’s called _banishment!”_

“Oh my god,” Barry says right as he notices a consistent tapping noise. He tracks it to the wood chair, where Johann is drumming his fingers on the arm rests to a beat he taps with his foot. It quiet, but steady, getting more prominent the longer it goes. His gaze still seems fuzzy, but there’s an awareness in the way he watches the Raven and Maarvey duel. He’s waiting.

The Raven slams her gauntlet in Maarvey’s face, a tooth popping from his gums as he reels backwards. Johann slams his foot on the floor and hums a note that sends a shock wave through the warehouse. The bugs scatter, streaming out of the open doors as the force hits the metal sheets of the walls before reflecting back into the center. It turns into a repeating note that sends everyone onto the floor with every hit, knocking down every attempt to get back up again.

After the third wave, Barry knocks out.

Out of everyone in the warehouse, the Raven is the only one who manages to stay standing. She sways on her feet, unlatching the harpoon from the ground and launching it high into the air. It sticks next to one of the ceiling beams, where one can easily swing through the window and make it outside. She grabs onto Johann, his weak body limp in her arms as she hoists him upright. With a tug on the cord, the harpoon reels her into the air.

The effects of the shockwave start to wear off. Everyone is groaning. Those who are not are unconscious.

Della Reese has dissipated, leaving Merle very small looking as he sits up, a hand nursing the side of his head. His vision swims in vertigo, Magnus screaming in his ear to please not die. “Motherfucker,” he grumbles. Only fifty feet away is Barry, eyes closed and mouth open— still out cold. He’s practically in spitting distance, and Merle just needs to find the strength to get off his lazy ass and grab the guy before it’s too late.

And like that, it's too late.

He can see the dark shape of the masked thief come swinging down again, a casual gait in her step as she steps over prone people to the tied up gnome. Over the shoulder he’s thrown, Leon wheezing as the air is knocked out of him. Then she goes over to Barry. “Hey!” Merle fumbles his hands over the ground for his _Extreme Team Bible,_ but between his foggy head and the multiple bodies in his way, he can’t make it out.

The Raven lifts Barry up, grumbling under his heavy weight, before managing to get him around her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “Yeah, sorry pal.”

“Merle,” Magnus’s voice says into his ear. He sounds like he's been screaming for a long while, but this is the first time his words hit the dwarf's eardrums. The volume is nauseating, making his head swirl. “Fuck, Merle! Don’t die!”

Merle winces and shoves a hand over the stone. His other hand goes to his side, finding his war hammer still strapped safely to his belt. “Hey.” He wavers on his feet, two hands gripping the handle as he holds the hammer out before him. “Batter up.”

He only gets one step into his run before the Raven picks an abandoned baton off the ground and chucks it at his head, sending him back onto the ground. His head spins, pieces fail to click back together, and he slips into delirium once more.

She shrugs to herself, then tugs on the cord of her harpoon. It lifts her up and out of the warehouse where her battlewagon idles just beyond the walls of the Hammerhead compound. Johann is where she left him, pale as he holds onto the rails with a loose grip. “Got the red robe, bard,” she says, dumping the half conscious Leon on the flatbed, then the fully unconscious Barry next to him. She hops into the driver’s seat, already feeling cramp despite having already adjusted the seats and the controls to her height.

Johann looks at the back of her head, feeling the engine kick into gear as she starts coasting down the street, away from the waters of the canal and into the depths of the worker’s district. He can see this situation for what it is—being saved from his kidnappers by another kidnapper. All because of the mere idea of the Grand Relics. Appearing to be too delirious to come up with a trick did more than enough to convince the Raven that he was telling the truth when he said that Leon and Sildar knew everything about the Grand Relics, not him. The time it took her to go back in and retrieve them was enough for him to sober up and think of a plan.

Despite figuring out how to defeat the thralls, he’s always remained at the bottom of the command chain. He’s never had to pay attention to their various back up plans, and he’s struggling to think of what to do in the few minutes he has until the Raven takes them to wherever she wants them to go. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Leon’s shop and apartment is compromised. Captain Bane said to never go to the militia headquarters, especially when he’s not in the city to help them.

He swallows, dragging himself up to the window of the driver’s pit. And he sings:

_“I met my true love on a lake_

_And she left me the next day_

_Still her beauty dominates_

_Every thought that I yearn to say_

_And I pray she’ll take me there_

_And I may once more kiss her hair_

_On the shores of a summer lake”_

Magic imbues in the notes, weighing down the air with a glittering sweetness that makes the Raven’s eyes heavy. It’s beautiful and mellifluous, albeit clunky. Johann can feel the parts where he struggled to fit the spell into his words, reinforcing his magic with the meaning of his song. Yet, he watches as her mind muddies. Without her realizing it, the song becomes the only thing that matters in the world. His song and the beauty in those words. Like that, _dominate_ lulls her into submission.

“Get us to the Still-water Sea as soon as possible,” he orders.

The Raven nods, turning the battlewagon down a different street.

* * *

The fire in the hearth cackles. Warmth spreads smooth and steady over the workshop like a knife spreads butter. Stevie shifts on the bench, hands on the table as she picks out the dirt stuck under her nails. Lips pressing together, she doesn’t know if she should look at the man—John, he said his name was—or pretend he’s not there. She tries inserting her mom or dad or even Uncle Merle into a fantasy version of this, trying to figure out what they would do. But any time she tries, it’s like her brain slams into a wall instead. She can’t think. She knows she can’t think and she has no idea how to fix it.

“Are you thirsty?” John asks with a kind smile. “Is there anything you want? Milk? Juice? Soda?”

She doesn’t get a chance to think of an answer when a tea set appears in the middle of the work bench. Her parent’s porcelain, a set decorated with painted flowers Aunt Lucretia gave them. Her mom always says it looks like something an old lady would have. John raises a brow at it, but says nothing as he picks up the pot and starts preparing a cup. “I haven’t made tea like this in a long time,” he says, pressing oolong leaves into a small strainer. “Where I’m from, tea is in bags.”

“Bags?” she says.

His eyes sparkle. “Sure. Small little bags that you can stick right into the water itself.” He pours steaming water from the teapot, making sure it’s the right amount before passing it to her. “Let it steep.”

“I know.” Her fingers curl around the small handle, picking up the cup a little before setting it back down on its mini plate. The clank it makes is too loud for the room.

John doesn’t seem to notice, keeping his eyes on the process of preparing his own cup. Stevie can see down the collar of his dress shirt and how the black marks on his skin reaches down his throat and pools just below the collar bone. “When I was a kid, I had to make an old looking letter so I took a used tea bag to make it look like parchment.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name when you said it earlier.”

“Stevie.”

“Like the singer?”

“Who?”

“You know. Stevie Nicks. Fleetwood Mac?”

“No?”

“Maybe I can find some of her stuff somewhere.” John bobs the strainer. “Her music's really great. Might be a bit old for you.”

She frowns. “I’m going to be eleven soon.”

He laces his fingers together, using them as a balance for his chin. “That’s fun. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Stevie? What are your interests? Hobbies?”

“Um…” She picks at her nails again. His smile still nice, but now it’s driving through her skin. “I don’t know.”

“So you do nothing when you come home from school every day?”

She looks around the workshop. Various tools remain mounted on the wall, many intricately carved hooks displaying her mother’s metal work. A few chairs and tables hang from the ceiling by tight cords, making the room lower than it really is. “I, uh… what am I doing here?”

“That is a very good question.” John unlaces his fingers, freeing up his hands so that he can gesture to the space around them. “This is a place called parley. With it—”

“Only Uncle Merle can do parley,” Stevie says.

He pauses, thinking over her words. He picks the strainer from the cup, taps the sides to knock off a few hanging droplets of tea, then sets it on the plate. “So Merle is your uncle?” He picks up the cup and takes a long sip. Stevie knows that her tea must be done too, but she can’t bring herself to move. She knows there’s a question on her lips, but she can’t even bring herself to say it aloud. “I think Merle and I are very close,” John says. “I’m sure he’s talked about me before.”

The black on his neck creeps upwards. Stevie can’t breathe. She keeps her hands on the table, tremors wrecking through her bones while the rest of her body refuses to move. From the corner of her eyes, she can see the wintry scene outside be consumed by a black darker than the night, ribbons of color shining through. John stares at her with a raised brow, as if to dare her to say something. He places his cup down on the plate. The clink deafens. “I’m not here to hurt you,” John says. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to help.”

She sniffles, and her face breaks into tears. She doesn’t move to wipe them away, or even open her mouth into a sob. But every muscle scrunches up, trembling as she cries. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe.

John rises from his seat, shuffling around the table until he’s right next to her. He kneels onto one knee, his hands reaching onto her lap to take hers. They’re old and worn, but not rough. Swiping his thumb over the back of her palm, he hushes her. “It’s alright to be scared. I know you haven’t heard anything good about me. But trust me—I just want to help you.”

She shakes her head furiously, like she can erase him from sight.

“But I do. I don’t want you to have to feel like this.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. “I want to go home!”

“Okay. I’ll send you home. But promise me we can talk again soon.”

She shakes her head for a second longer, then blurts out, “Okay, okay! Just let me go!”

And her voice jumps back at her. The back and forth of his thumb is gone. Stevie opens her eyes, finding the orange dim of the workshop gone, replaced by the stark white lights of her little room on the _Starblaster_ _._ She doesn’t think, tripping over her feet to get her hands on the doorknob. She wrestles is open, letting it slam against the wall as she sprints through.

Her feet hit the ground with a punch, each stomp echoing down the empty ship as she goes up the stairs to the deck. All the laundry is still out, but the ship is docked on the ground once more. Her dad is at the helm, one hand on the giant wheel as he yells into a stone of farspeech, “Merle! Fuck—Merle! Are you there? Are you alive?” A beat. “Fuck, Merle! Don’t die!”

She stands at the bottom of the steps leading up to the helm, watching as Magnus continues to yell. His grip on the wheel is terrifying, so strong that the metal might dent under his fingers. His words slap her across the voice, the image of Merle dying on the world below and neither of them being able to stop them.

Stevie steps back. And again. She turns around and goes back below deck.

* * *

The Grim Reaper takes his scythe into both hands, swooping down towards Not Lucretia. Julia’s sword impales her chest, and any attempt she makes to drive it out is only met with Julia driving the sword in deeper. Her red bandana slips down her forehead, stuck to her sweaty soaked skin as it threatens to get into her eyes. She refuses to move though, gritting her teeth as the joints in her prosthetic leg creak dangerously. Not Lucretia looks up at the Grim Reaper, panic clear on her face, before looking back at the human. “You’re really going to kill your best friend?” she says, holding up a hand to show off the gold band on her finger. Julia’s wedding ring.

Julia’s frown only deepens, adjusting her weight so that she can drive the sword even deeper into Not Lucretia’s chest. A pathetic, pained gasp leaves her but Julia doesn’t listen. “Fuck off.”

A blast of acid strikes Julia—hitting the spot where her prosthetic connects to her flesh thigh. She howls in agony, falling to the ground as the green liquid eats away the metal and leather. She has to let go of the sword, and, with the hand not holding the smoking wand, Not Lucretia reaches behind her back to grab the cross guard. The side of a shield slams into her face, sending her face first onto the ground. Killian plants of foot on her back, pinning her in place as her hand wraps around the sword.

She drives it in even deeper, ignoring Not Lucretia’s screams. Julia wretches the wand out of her hand.

The Grim Reaper is still a fifty feet away when a ball of fire barrels for his face. He dodges, the two orbs hovering by him mimicking his movements as the ball of fire hits the wall and bursts into smaller flames. Not Taako stands on his catwalk, glaive raised as he dares the reaper to fight him instead. The Grim Reaper takes it, changing course to the possessed elf instead.

The orbs split up, one continuing on to Not Lucretia as the other breaks away from the reaper completely. It flies back, skimming over Davenport’s head as he tinkers with the engine. It starts to fly towards Not Taako, only for Ren’s cry to break through the air. It stops, hovering for a moment before going to her.

With one hand, she struggles to keep a grip on the umbra staff, swearing when a mad Avi claws at her face and tries to rip it away. The orbs buzzes around her, then dives straight for Avi’s chest.

It blends into his flesh, causing him to pause for a moment. Still straddling Ren, his hands go to his head, grabbing onto the crown of thorns digging into his scalp. “Motherfucking,” he mutters in a way that’s completely not himself. “Gotta fucking—”

Ren kicks Avi off, ignores his shout as she lunges and pins him to the ground. She digs into his bag, and yanks out the anti-thrall headphones. She slams it onto his head, praying to every god in the pantheon that the magic that allows it to defeat thralls can combat _crown of madness_ _._ Avi’s eyes flutter, face twisting and scrunching. The orb ejects from his chest, careening into the pit of mannequins. Avi finally rips away the crown of thorns, gasping as the madness leaves him completely. “Holy crap.”

“Glad to have you back,” she says, taking the umbra staff in hand once more. She rises to her feet, then holds out her hand-less arm to help him up. She feels the umbra staff rummage through her head, directing her senses from Not Taako’s fight with the Grim Reaper and to Not Lucretia on the other catwalk. She tightens her grip. “Let’s go.”

They hop onto the beam connecting the catwalks, jumping over the broken consoles and sliding past Davenport’s engine. “Davenport,” he says, grabbing onto the end of Avi’s pants leg. He points to a broken mechanism inside.

“Go, Ren.” Avi kneels, peering inside the engine. He gives Davenport a baffled look. “What the heck even is this?”

Ren doesn’t stay to see where this is going. She hops over a few more barriers before landing on the original catwalk, dashing over to where Not Lucretia is pinned to the floor. “How can I help?” she asks, stopping only when she’s within reach of Killian’s presence.

“We need to kick Lydia out of there,” Julia says, frowning as one of the reaper’s white orbs darts over her head like a fly. She takes her wedding ring off Not Lucretia’s finger. It takes a little trickery, but she manages to slip it onto the ring finger of hr right hand.

“Stabbing’s not working,” Killian says, leaning her weight into the sword.

Not Lucretia growls, lifting her head to spit a wad of blood at Julia. “Don’t you get it? You’re never going to get her back now. Kill me and—”

Julia picks up her broken prosthetic leg and bats it over Not Lucretia’s head. “Horseshit!”

The umbra staff heats up. Ren swears, adjusting her grip as the tip rises on its own accord. A spell she doesn’t know launches, landing in the center of Not Lucretia’s chest. She screams, red magic engulfing her. The black-specter lich rises from Lucretia’s body, screaming in agony as the red magic continues to zap around its incorporeal form.

The umbra staff flares open before inverting. Lydia screams, a skeletal hand trying to dig its nails into anything for support—Killian’s face, the floor, then the edge of the umbrella until the umbra staff eats her whole. The umbrella doesn’t revert back right away. The handle heats up, reaching temperatures so hot that Ren thinks she’s going to get burned. Yelping, she drops the weapon and the vague _knowing_ of where everyone in Wonderland is cuts off.

Ren doesn’t see what happens in the umbra staff—Lydia, falling into a black curtain room, her black robe switched to the macabre dress she became undead in. Her hair is a mess, hands trying to push long strands out of her face so that she can see her surroundings. “What is—”

“You.” And there’s Lup in her red robe, ragged and not-quite-there. Her eyes blaze with fury that has no need to be spoken. “What did you do to my brother?”

Lydia stares at her for a moment. She grins. “So you’re the missing—”

Lup’s slashes her hand through the air, and the wayward magic the umbra staff holds listens to her command. It strikes through Lydia’s chest, morphing her remark into a horrid scream. Lup listens to it for a moment, then silently brings another slash upon her. “I’m going to fucking rip you apart.” Red energy buzzes around her form, and her face flashes between that of a beautiful woman and a decay litch skull. “Piece by piece—molecule by molecule until you’re begging to die.”

Her hand tightens in a fist. She doesn’t bother to see how exactly that makes Lydia howl. “Don’t _ever_ mess with my brother!”

Lydia never comes out of the umbra staff. It consumes her, the canvas rippling under the force of it until it stills once more. With a snap, the umbrella reverts back to normal. Ren picks it up, and the vague knowing that came with it is gone. She tries not to think too hard about it, especially when she can hear Julia and Killian gasping.

The white orb that lingered around them dives into Lucretia’s chest, brightening for a moment before blending into her skin seamlessly. Lucretia opens her eyes, about to gasp before a spurt of blood coughs out instead. “Shit!” Killian pulls the sword out, and Julia presses her hands to Lucretia’s chest to stem the bleeding. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Do you know any healing magic?” Julia asks Ren.

Ren barely shakes her head before Killian fumbles into her bag and pulls out a healing potion. “Here,” Killian says before tossing it. Julia catches it, pulling off the cord before picking up Lucretia’s head and forcing her to drink it. “It’s not going to be a full heal, but like. At least she won’t die?”

“It’s the best thing we got right now. Thank you.” Julia gives a small smile, quiet and sincere, before turning her attention back to Lucretia, leaning down to get a better look at her face. “Hey. Talk to me. You alright? You kinda died back there.”

Lucretia coughs and makes a noise that could sound hopeful.

“Look on the bright side,” Julia says. “At least your face didn’t fall apart.”

Lucretia spits out a wad of blood. “Seriously?”

“Dav!” Davenport leaps to his feet, grin large and victorious as he watches his engine roar to life.

Avi is a second behind, scrambling to rise as the loud ticking of the engine only grows louder and louder. “Holy crap—what the hell does this thing do?”

Davenport makes large gestures with his hands, repeating his name over and over again as he tries to explain—it’s a bond engine, but instead of the power from close relationships, it thrives off the suffering Wonderland has accumulated. After a moment, he remembers himself and grows quiet. He points up, and Avi sees a column of black smoke be dragged down from the ceiling, funneling into the engine to make the turbines spin faster and faster. A beat, and Avi raises his brows. “Huh.”

A bulb bursts. The colorful lights turn erratic, the ground shaking as more and more of the black smoke funnels in. The more the engine uses, the faster its turbines spin, and the more despair it needs. Swaying on their feet, both Avi and Davenport run off the steel beam- Davenport's face twisting with pain all the while— to make it onto the same catwalk as everyone else. “What the hell is going on?” Killian shouts, keeping a hand on Ren so that she doesn’t get too disorientated. Above, a giant crack appears in the ceiling, and they can see the bright but cloudy sky of the Felicity Wilds.

“It’s going to come down?" Julia says, more as a question than anything. When Davenport, kneeling at Lucretia’s side, nods, Julia reaches for the sword. “Yeah, we’re getting out of here.”

Killian pulls her headphones over her ears. After a nudge, Ren does the same.

More bursts of bright light, but this time it’s from the fight reigning on the opposite catwalk. The skeleton of the Grim Reaper dodges attack after attack Not Taako sends his way, swooping in low before swinging his scythe at the elf. Each time, Not Taako moves just out of the way. His cocky smirk is finally gone, blue hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as the gravity of his situation dawns on him more and more.

The umbra staff bursts forth with another bout of power. The same sense of _knowing_ that it gave Ren before is back. She lifts her weapon, knowing exactly where the Grim Reaper and possessed elf are. And when the cracks in the ceiling splits apart, illuminating the black room with natural light, she sees one lone mannequin stand up in the sea of ones just like it. Mostly. This one only has one arm.

Ren smirks at her weapon. "Alright," she says, hoping that the woman inside the staff will hear her. Already, power charges at the tip, red and purple magic mingling together for one last power attack. "Let's do this."

The Grim Reaper raises his weapon high above his head and bears it down hard and fast on Not Taako. He swears and tries to jump out of the way, only for the catwalk to split asunder. He falls, rolling on the ground until he’s right at the edge. A look of panic crosses his face before he grins. “You really think you’ve beaten me? What about—”

Before he can raise his glaive, an orb of sheer magic force strikes his back. He screams, dropping his glaive as he falls onto his knees. Behind him, Ren smiles as she lowers her weapon. She watches as the one armed mannequin grabs onto his back and drags him off the catwalk. Not Taako screams, trying to claw the fake arm away as it wraps around his neck in a choke hold. The mannequin holds him easily, using all its power and strength to keep the air out of his lungs.

The Grim Reaper steps to the edge of the stage. He smiles. “Thank you, Taako.”

And he slices his scythe through the elf.

The blade catches Edward, keeping his black robed form imprisoned close to the Grim Reaper before he’s consumed by a white light, transported to his special cell in the Eternal Stockade. The mannequin drops Taako’s body before itself crumbles back onto the ground, the orb in its chest flying free.

With Edward gone, Wonderland finally falls apart. Blocks of cement come crashing down, random props used throughout games not seen joining it. There’s screams from people trapped deeper in its depths, more and more of the lights exploding into nothing. Davenport casts a barrier spell, one not as strong as Lucretia’s but still enough to protect all six of them. Across the way, the orb flies into Taako’s chest. His eyes snap open, as he gasps for air like a dying man. A second later, the Grim Reaper is on top of him, covering Taako’s body with his own as the rumble continues to crash and fall down.

Davenport sweats as his barrier starts to crack. “Dav-en…” He grunts, pain flaring through his broken ankle as he's unable to complete the thought.

Julia preemptively places her body on top of Lucretia’s as best as she can, keeping an eye out as the walls crumble away, revealing the forest. She reaches into her bag, fishing out her stone of farspeech. “Julia to _Starblaster_ —”

“Jules!” Magnus’s voice cackles over the stone.

She can’t help but to smile. “Pick up time, big guy. We need you pronto.”

One last final booms echoes through the air. The catwalk disappears under them, and they shout as they drop the few feet onto plush grass. The world seems to groan before finally, at last, everything stops. Wonderland is finally gone. Davenport drops the barrier.

They stand in the middle of a clearing, the landscape filled to the brim with chunks of rock and broken planks of wood. Even though clouds paint the sky gray, it's bright. Beautifully, naturally bright. A gentle breeze passes through the surrounding trees, the cool air fresh on their cheeks as the Felicity Woods settles into silence.

“Is it gone?” Ren turns, ear searching the air for any reveal sounds. “It’s all gone?”

“Yeah,” Avi says, face worn and tired. “Yeah it’s gone.”

Ren stills. Her expression is unreadable, the atmosphere feeling like a graveyard.

A couple dozen people rise from the rumble, groaning as they blink at the bright sunlight. Strewn throughout the remains are various items—swords and supplies given up by various different players. And, at the center of the wreck, is a column of stone jutting upwards. On top sits a small copper bell.

“Shit,” Julia says. She can’t walk. Lucretia’s too injured to move. And right as their eyes land on the Animus Bell, Killian whips around and bashes the shield into the back of Davenport’s head.

“Sorry!” Killian says as the gnome lands on the ground face first, groaning as his wand skips out of his hand. She picks up Ren with no explanation, swinging the blind drow over her shoulder. “Avi, go!”

Avi sprints for it.

“You can’t—” Lucretia gasps in pain.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Julia wrestles her stolen pair of headphones out of her bag, slipping them over her ears before the thrall. “Wait, guys—don’t do it!”

Killian pauses, about to run after him, before shrugging. “Sorry, but we can’t let you guys get away with another one.”

“Killian, hold on,” Ren says, struggling to keep her grasp on her umbrella while also banging on Killina's back. “We need to check for—”

“Ren, no.” Killian groans, but there's a softer note to it. “I know there’s a lot of baggage here, but the safety of everyone else comes first. Let’s go.” With that, she runs after Avi. He secures the bell safely in the depths of his bag of holding before the three of them dodge around the rest of Wonderland’s confused survivors, making their final escapes into the Felicity Wilds. All the while, Ren hangs onto her umbra staff with one hand, morose as stares without sight at the ruins of the place she and Taako were destroyed in.

Davenport lifts off the ground, spitting out dirt. “Davenport…”

“Oh my god,” Lucretia says weakly.

Julia throws her head back and groans. “Fuck! We went through all that shit, and for what? Nothing! God, fucking—”

“I wouldn’t say that was for nothing.” The voice is familiar.

A bit of the rumble falls away. The black cowl of the Grim Reaper appears, him lifting up as each of his bones creak. “Oh dear,” he says in a thick accent. “That could’ve gone better. I’m going to need a whole squadron to fix this mess right up.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” And from where the Grim Reaper had been hunched over, Taako sits up. His voice is hoarse, eyes squinting as he looks at pure sunlight for the first time in three years. “I had a great line there, and you’ve just ruined the whole flow I’d gotten going on.”

Julia stares.

“Davenport?” Davenport says, face brightening up.

Lucretia manages to lift her head a little, smiling. “Taako…”

Taako just looks at them for a moment, ears pressing down and low. Suspended in time, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The ghost of words form on his lips, never coming to life with sound, as he places a balancing hand on the rumble. He pulls away sharply, hissing.

 He stares at it, eyes widening bit by bit. He gently places the pad of a finger on the rumble, feeling the rough ridges on his skin. He trails it down onto the grass, combs through the lush green, then follows up along the seams of his trousers. He breathes in, the scent of dirt and grass filling his nose. When he breathes out, he almost seems surprised by it. His mouth switches between a frown and a smile, not sure which fits better on his face, a face he can _feel_. The very thought makes him laugh. The note is strained, too loud on the ears as his eyes get wet. “Holy shit,” he says. His ears spring upwards, as if surprised to hear his own voice once more.

“Davenport?” Davenport says, looking unsure if he should stay in place or rush to his side.

Cackling, Taako places a hysterical hand on his chest. “No, it’s me,” he says. “I’m Taako. Y’know, from TV?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done! It's a wrap, everybody! We're finally out of the Suffering Game! This arc was way too long and I am so sorry it dragged on for such a long time there. But at least we're free now, which means that there's now going to be a slew of interlude chapters where I can work on character, especially Taako's. Not that I can do that right away since I accidentally created a plot point here I'm going to have to solve next chapter but that's for next chapter.
> 
> For anybody who skipped the Stevie and John scene, here's a basic run down of what happened: John starts an innocent-seeming conversation with her in which he is able to learn her name. When he starts asking about her hobbies, she finally asks where she is. When he tells her about parley, she brings up Merle. John reveals that he in fact the Hunger, causing Stevie to freak out and start crying. He starts to comfort her, but she demands that he let her go. He does, but not before making her promise to see him again soon. The moment she it out of parley, Stevie runs to Magnus for help, only to find her dad yelling into the stone of farspeech for Merle "not be dead." Stevie fears that telling her dad right away will end with Merle dying, so she leaves without telling him about her encounter with John.
> 
> I really want this fic to be something everyone feels welcomed to read. This is only the first of the Stevie and John scenes of this fic, and I'm going to continue doing warnings and summaries like these because I know that it's going to be uncomfortable for everyone reading it. If there is ever any other warnings you want be to place before a chapter (or even for the fic as a whole) please feel free to tell me. I'd rather be too careful than not enough. 
> 
> There's always a lot more I have to say for every chapter, so if you want to hear it all, please check out my chapter notes: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/178062180211/northern-migration-chapter-21-notes-preview
> 
> And I know I'm just a skipping record at this point, but I seriously have a lot of gratitude for every single one of you guys. I'm always so worried that I can't give you all something to look forward to reading, and every time I hear one of you say you enjoyed this chapter or that it made you scream or anything, it just makes my day. So thank you. I definitely would never have had this much faith in this story if it wasn't for you guys proving me wrong at every corner.


	22. In Which Magnus's Daughter is Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucretia needs a healer. A plan Magnus never liked goes awry. Issak hears the news.

Taako squats a few feet from where Lucretia lays, doing something he’s never done before. He digs, nails scraping into the top layer of the soil. The sensation is strange. Not painful like he imagines it would be. It’s just uncomfortable, mud clogging his under nail until he swears he can feel how his nail lifts up to accommodate it. He can feel every wisp of blue hair dance in the breeze, how the moisture in the air settles on his face, every flirt of his clothes against his skin. Saliva swishes around his tongue, and he feel like he can’t speak without spitting it everywhere. He scowls, every muscle in his face tightening to make it so. It’s only been three years. He shouldn’t be this aware of every little thing his body does.

Kravitz has long phased out of his skeleton mode and back into his human face, summoning a few other reapers from the Astral Plane to help him sort through the remains of the necromantic bed that was Wonderland. He has survivors to interview and squads of black-clad workers to direct. The souls attached to the hundreds of mannequins are now free and lost and, according to the little tidbits of conversation Taako bothers to eavesdrop on, it’s all going to be a nightmare of paperwork to wade through.

He leaves Taako alone with everyone else. With that freedom, they all just sit and wait for the _Starblaster._ Morose silence settles between them. They all went through so much, only to emerge from the wreck without nothing to show. It's a sorrowful, word-extinguishing horror lacing them together. Earlier, Davenport had given him a hug, muttered his own name, and sat pensively to the side. Taako’s picked up on the weird speaking-thing the Wonderland elves tricked Davenport into, so he can excuse it. That’s a shitty thing to go through, especially for someone like the captain. Lucretia was a little loopy, making small noises that might be from pain or from sheer delirium. He took pity on her a while ago, cast a spell that sent her into a deep slumber. Just because she's injured doesn't mean she has be to conscious enough to bear through it.

And then, there’s that other woman. Taako squints at her as he digs, watching as she keeps a sure grip on Lucretia’s hand. He knows he doesn’t know her. He knows she knows him. But he doesn’t know why she’s here. He gathered during the games that she acted as the fighter for the team, but then that leads him to wonder where Magnus is.

What has he missed?

His fingers brush something smooth. In the rumble, he’s already found where he dropped his glaive. He even managed to call the chance lance back to his side. But this right here is the real prize. From the soil, he pries out two long knitting needles made of white, holographic stone. He smiles, then shoves them into his bag before anyone can see.

“Finally.” The wind picks up, each beat a slap to his face. Taako rises to full height in time to see the mystery woman smile at the appearance of a familiar red hull. A murky feeling stuffs his chest as he watches the rings of the bond engine spin around each other as the _Starblaster_ lowers as close to the tops of the trees as it dares. He wipes his hand on the end of his cape, tight lipped as the mystery woman told her stone of farspeech that they need a gurney. Nothing that concerns him.

“Taako.” It has to be a coincidence that a raven caws the second Kravitz comes rushing from his duties (that being, ordering an underling around). His formal blanket wraps tightly around his shoulders as the wind blows his braids away from his face. The sky is gray with impending rain, but Taako wishes the sun was out. He bets the beads in his hair would glitter like precious stones, his brown skin coming to rich life under the rays of the sun. “Are you departing now?”

And there’s that fucking accent.

“Yeah, sure thing, my dude.” Somewhere behind him, he can see the ship’s gurney be lowered to the ground, Davenport helping the one-legged-and-armed mystery woman lift Lucretia onto it. Once she’s secure, Davenport hops on and the two are raised up to the ship. “Time’s a-wasting and everything.”

“Well, I do need to sort out this little problem before it gets all out of hand.” Kravitz’s lips make a little twist before his face smooths into perfect professionalism. “Once I can escape my duties to my queen, I’ll be sure to assist you on your quest to the best of my ability.”

“Huh.” He rubs his nails on his pants, dying to get the dirt out from underneath. “Don’t trust us?”

Kravitz smirks. “I rather like my head where it is. Don’t you agree?”

“Taako!” The gurney is back on the ground, the mystery woman trying to pull herself onto it. “Let’s go!”

“Your head’s okay.” Taako shrugs as he swings his body around, sauntering towards the mystery woman. “A solid six,” he calls over his shoulder. “Seven if I squint.”

He can only just hear Kravitz’s snort over the wind. “Until next time then, Taako De Loop.”

It’s been a long time since he’s had to mess with the gurney. It’s made from a light wood, carved from Magnus’s deft hands. Taako puzzles over it for a moment, trying to figure out how the intricate straps are supposed to work when the mystery woman interrupts his thoughts. “Just help me sit right there,” she says, pointing to one end. Both her teeth and red bandana are bright against her dark skin, and his eyes hurt to even look at her. “Just sit opposite. I’m pretty sure it’ll balance itself out.”

“Yeah. Fine. Sure.” He’s not heartless, so he grabs her arm and drags her close enough to the gurney that she can pull herself on. It’s hard work, and the sweat that drips down his back is as unpleasant as he remembers it being. She shifts, makes sure she has her sword and shield strapped to her back. When he takes his designated spot, she tells her stone to lift them up. The ground disappears under his feet. From this high up, he can see all that remains of Wonderland—nothing but a pile of junk and rock. He spits down at it.

A second later, he hears Kravitz’s distant but still clearly disgusted shout. Taako cackles.

“Hey.” The mystery woman holds out her hand, a nice smile on her face. A gold wedding band shines on the wrong finger, but he can excuse it. She doesn’t have a left hand anymore. “I’m Julia.”

When his hand goes to hers, he swears her grip breaks every single one of his fingers. “I’m, uh. I’m Taako. Y’know, from TV.”

“What’s TV?” she asks.

Taako grimaces.

When the gurney reaches the deck, the murky feeling from before comes back in full force. He jumps over the rail, feet landing on the familiar wood. It’s the same silver railing, same layout from stern to helm. After all this time, nothing’s changed. Sure, Lucretia is laying on the ground with Davenport still worrying over her, but that doesn’t count. Everything else—the scratches on the wood where battles had been fought, the carving of their names by the helm for future prosperity—is still here in mint condition. Nostalgia sweetens his lips, punctuating every step of movement as he spins and takes in the sight of home. This is home.

And there’s Magnus. He’s standing by the buttons that operate the gurney lift, eyes wide as he stares at Taako. He’s older—thicker in some parts, worn out in others like a bruised shield. But his smile is the same as he takes three large steps from the buttons and engulfs Taako in a hug. “Holy shit—Taako!”

Taako wheezes, every rib cracking. Magnus’s arms are thick and strong, and Taako can’t deny how great the feeling of being affectionately suffocated is. “Ey, big guy—”

“I thought I was never gonna—”

“Momma!” At the sound of a girl’s voice, Magnus drops Taako. Hug over. His hands stay resting on Taako as the little human girl races from the below deck stairs to the gurney.

Julia, stuck in her spot as if on display, gives a smile tinged in sadness. She holds out her arm, revealing clothes covered in black ink and dried blood, ready to give a hug. “Come here.”

And the child freezes. She sees the missing leg and arm. Then she stares at Julia’s aged face with a mixture of confusion and fear. She steps back, voice thinning to a whisper. “Mom?”

Before Julia can reply, Taako feels Magnus’s hands leave him. “Jules,” he says, his hand now brushing over the little girl’s head as he approaches Julia. His mouth agape, he tries to find a place to start. His hands hover over Julia under she takes one of his and presses it to her cheek. His other hand copies it, and Taako can see the gold glint of a ring on his left finger. “Jules, what happened? This is… _what happened?”_

Taako stares at the ring, then at the loving sadness in Julia’s eyes. He looks down at the child, and a part of himself he really hates can piece the narrative into a whole picture. “What the fuck?”

“Magnus…” A strained note comes up Julia’s throat, her face betraying her true feelings for the first time. “So much. So much happened back there.”

He stares, hands beginning to shake as he studies the hurt on his wife’s face. Then he leans in and hugs her, dried blood and ink and all. The words he whispers into the side of her head aren’t meant for anyone else to hear, but it makes her hands on his back tighten, scrunching up fistfuls of shirt.

Lucretia makes a weak whimper. Julia’s hands go slack. A moment later, she pries Magnus back, letting his hands slip back onto her cheeks. “Where’s Merle?” she says, trying to look around Magnus’s bulk for the dwarf. Taako hums, unable to resist scanning the deck of any sign of the guy himself. A part of him hopes that there’s going to be a sign of Lup being on board, but the ship’s bare of any glimpse of her cheeky face. He doesn’t even see Barry.

Magnus stands ramrod straight, hands dropping. He wrings them. “Um… yeah, about that…”

Davenport clears his throat. “Davenport…” he says in a warning tone.

Magnus stares at him. “Huh?”

Julia makes a frustrated noise. “Sweetie. Darling. Space boy. I love you, but Lucretia is dying. Go get our healer.”

Magnus holds his hands together as if in prayer, pressing them to his lips before letting them fall away. “What if I told you that Merle isn’t here?”

Taako can’t help but to snort before dutifully stepping out of the way of Davenport storming over to the tall man. Each step on his broken ankle makes pain flare on his features. “Davenport?” His hair is frazzled, a vein popping in his temple as he jabs a finger up at Magnus. “Davenport Davenport Davenport Davenport Davenport Davenport—”

“What the hell?” Magnus shouts.

“Merle was under strict orders to never leave the ship.” Her voice sounds like a razor’s edge, so sharp that even Taako feels his skin crawl.

“This doesn’t involve me,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m just gonna—” He slips away, letting Davenport and Julia take turns chewing Magnus out while the guy tries to defend himself. Taako tells himself that he doesn’t care, but when he hears Barry’s name be mentioned, his ears flicker. Instead of hurrying below deck to see what else has changed, he slides down to Lucretia’s side, taking up to the role of holding her hand as she whimpers and mutters through her pain. He pats the back of her hand, never looking down at her as he says, “ride it out, homie. You’ve been through worst.”

The sound Lucretia makes could be called a laugh.

“I wasn’t going to turn back an opportunity to save Barry!” Magnus shouts, gesturing with every word. “I told you that the moment we knew where he is, I was going to rescue him. We didn’t know _this_ was going to happen!”

Davenport groans. “Davenport!”

“Why are you doing that?”

Julia pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay, okay—you fucked up. Fine. Let’s just fix the problem now.”

Small steps tap on the deck. Taako turns his head, compensating for his missing eye. The little girl from before—Magnus’s daughter, if that isn’t hard enough to believe—stumbles like a dead man over to him. He can see her father less in her face and more in the scrapes and bruises adorning her bare knees. She looks like she could be a wild child if not for the pallid hue consuming her complexion, eyes wide as she stares at Lucretia. For a haunting moment, he watches her large eyes drift down from Lucretia’s delirious face to the bloody wound at her chest.

The child screams. Hands over mouth, breathing in stutters as she bursts into tears.

“What the fuck?” Taako drops Lucretia’s hand, scrambling to his feet. He should do something. Anything. He’s about to kneel back down and hush her when Magnus swoops in and picks her up.

“ _Shhhhh,_ it’s alright.” Magnus presses her face into his chest, smoothing a hand over her knotted curls. He bounces her as if she’s five years younger, and she clings to him with a fierceness only matched by her sobs. “You’re alright, Stevie. You’re alright.”

Taako stalls. A part of him shuts off his brain and waits to be told what to do next. He wants Lup to cue him as to what a real person should do when a child just starts crying right in front of them, when witnessing the hot shot dumbass you spent a hundred years memorizing like a tavern ditty suddenly reveal himself to be an old guy with real responsibility. He’ll even take Ren’s eager-to-please nature if it means she’ll pull him through this labyrinth.

But he’s alone. So he sits and takes Lucretia’s hand again. He watches Magnus carry Stevie below deck, hushing her all the way. He sees Davenport help Julia as much as he can climb off the gurney and they both limp to the helm. A second later, the rings of the bond engine spin faster as they finally heft back into the air, gliding to their next destination. “Looks like it’s just us,” he says. To who, he’s not sure. Probably Lucretia since she’s right there, but even he’s not sure if that’s true. “Just us. All by our lonesome.”

* * *

When Magnus comes back onto deck, the clouds are even darker in the sky. It could be because the day is finally beginning to err into dusk, but he can smell the moisture in the air. Another storm is coming. Now it’s a wait to see how long until it all comes crashing down.

A cot has been brought out for Lucretia, and she’s been moved onto the helm where they can all keep an eye on her condition. When Magnus climbs up the short sets of stairs, he sees Julia flanking her side—Julia caressing her hand as Lucretia mutters through delirium. Taako stands at the wheel, silently helping Davenport steer the ship. He keeps one hand on the wheel, helping a one-handed Davenport keep the course steady, occasionally hitting a button on the control board. It leaves Davenport red in the face, frown thick like syrup, but he stays mum.

Magnus tries to give both of them a smile, but neither man pays him any heed. He turns his attention to his wife. Minus a leg and arm, plus a decade of years. Just looking at her makes his heart stab in pain. He should’ve been there to protect her. He wants to tell her that, to ease away the invisible wounds Wonderland has left on her with kisses and promises that he’ll always be her shield, but he knows that’s not what she wants to hear right now.

Swallowing, he kneels next to her. “Stevie’s fine now,” he says, kissing the side of her head. Her hair is so much shorter now, so much so that her wild curls are nothing more than wisps of plain hair. Gray even stretches through her roots, threatening to spill through the rest of her locks. Julia leans into his kiss, and he takes that as a good sign. His arm wraps around her shoulder. Without an arm between them, he can lean in closer than he ever could have before. “She’s in her room and everything. Promised her that Lucretia’s not going to die.”

“We’re lucky Killian had a healing potion to stabilized her,” Julia says, tightening her grip on Lucretia. “Or else she would be.” She tugs on the bandana around her neck, a sad replacement for the curls she used to coil around her knuckle. “And it’ll be my fault.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Magnus says.

“Davenport,” Davenport says over his shoulder.

Magnus frowns. “So, um. Is anyone here going to explain to be why you’re saying nothing but your name?”

Julia tells him, filling up the dead air as Davenport flies the _Starblaster_ back to Neverwinter. Their earlier argument ended with the agreement that they were going to have to find a different cleric to give Lucretia the healing she needs. Even with the bond engine, flying to Goldcliff to pick up Merle and Barry right away will take time they don’t have. Neverwinter is their only option. It feels like no time at all when Davenport says his name and points to the horizon where the grand city rolls into view.

“I think there’s a temple right off the eastside entrance,” Magnus says, standing to look at the map laid out on the side. “How close do you think we can park?”

“Daven…” The captain doesn’t finish his name, sighing in frustration instead. He reaches out and, with the hand-less arm, gestures from where they are on the map—to the west of Neverwinter—across the city, then a farmer’s field to the east.

Magnus nods. A rock sits in his gut. Now he can’t get the image of an imposing wheel from his head, the spins that lead Davenport to practical muteness. He wants to fix that too, and the fact he can’t is worse than pulling teeth. “Okay. Cool. Makes sense.”

The _Starblaster_ glides over the city, the red hull casting a shadow over the winding streets and colorful buildings of stone for the second time that day. Going from the helm to the deck, Magnus leans over the edge of the rail as Davenport and Taako start to lower the ship in preparation for landing. They’re so close to the tops of the castle spires that Magnus swears he can just lean over and flick his finger against it.

A few mutters of Davenport’s name. Taako grumbles. “Fine. Just crash this thing for all I care.”

A second later, he slides into the spot next to Magnus. “Yo.” His arms folded on top of each other as he leans into the rail. The pose emphasizes every jut of his bones and makes the large brim of his wizard hats seem even more grand. “What’s cracking big guy?”

“Well, we’re gonna get us a new cleric who can actually…” Magnus pauses, giving Taako an askance look. The elf’s nose is steeper than any human’s, and it sticks out in a way that is almost unattractive. But it fits the large points of his expressive ears and the even sharper cut of his jaw. Even in the gray dusk, the neon of his hair is bright and wonderful. Magnus’s lips tug upwards until his grin is downright crooked. He snorts. “Holy fuck. Just. Dude. I just can’t believe you’re here right now.”

Taako shrugs. “It’s all part of the Taako brand. Gotta keep you people on your toes, or else—”

Bells toll.

They both pause, Taako standing upright as he looks down at the city. Each toll is loud and booming, resonating through the still air with the gravity only religion can bestow. It’s not just one church. With each toll, another temple adds their own set. A giant cacophony of church bells that ring through the streets, shepherding people indoors as quickly as they can move. The entirety of Neverwinter, the greatest city in Faerun, is silent save for the bells. “What the…” Taako leans over so much that he’s practically hanging over the edge. He squints, catching sight of the clock face of the city’s famous bell tower. “What gives? It’s only quarter till.”

“Shit.” Magnus is pale, sprinting back to the helm, “Davenport! We gotta move! _”_ He grabs the wheel, ignoring Davenport’s objections as he jerks the ship at a hard angle. Taako swears, grabbing onto the rail before he threatens to fall over.

“Davenport!” the captain shouts.

Julia crawls next to Davenport, planting a hand on the table as she tries to pull herself up. “It’s warning bells,” she says. “You only use them if you think someone is about to attack the town.”

“Their clocks could just, like, be going fast,” Taako says as he follows Magnus up the steps to the helm.

“No, it’s a thing.” Magnus wraps an arm around Julia’s waist and helps her to stand. She leans into his side, letting gravity prop her upright. “We’d even used bells to warn the Craftsmen Corridor is we were about to make an attack on Kalen.”

“What?” Taako says. He sputters. “W-what kind of shenanigans have you dumbasses been getting into?”

A boom. A whistle cuts through the air. Davenport swears and jerks the wheel. The ship leans to the side again, the ship almost falling full horizontal. Magnus holds onto Julia, keeping her straight while Taako casts _mage hand_ to hold Lucretia and her cot to the floor. Despite all the extreme angle, they see the iron sphere of a cannon ball arch through the air and crash through the deck. It crashes through more layers of wood before banging around what Magnus guesses is the kitchen.

Davenport reaches for a leaver with his hand-less arm. Magnus fumbles before managing to push it for him. The ship jolts higher into the air, easily hundreds of feet above the highest peak in the city. He jams his hands over a series of buttons and pushes down on another lever. They jolt forward, speeding so fast that the transparent shields over the deck have to rise to stop the wind from battering their faces. The bond engine whines from the effort and, as soon as the city is no longer below the ship, he reverses the lever. They stop, all of them shouting as the left over momentum tries to continue launching them forwards.

They only get a moment to regain their wits when the quick stomping of feet on stairs reaches their ears. “What’s happening?” Stevie shouts, racing from the depths of the ship to the deck. She slides on the wood as she tries to cut the corner too tight around the hole the canon ball left, all but jumping against the force of gravity trying to throw her into it, but manages to be up onto the helm in an instant. “Are we under attack?”

“Sweetie, we’re fine,” Julia says, trying to smile through the dizzying drop in her adrenaline.

“What are ya talking about?” Taako squawks, pushing the brim of his hat upwards as the remainder of his costume stays ruffled. “The entire city just tried to kill us!”

“Davenport,” Davenport hisses.

Magnus also shoots him a mean look, but Julia is ever calming and smiling as she does her best to bend down and hug her daughter. But her husband is the only thing keeping her standing, so it looks like she’s about to fall over instead. Stevie’s frown reaches a different meaning when she flinches and steps back. Julia freezes, losing her visage for a moment. Mother and daughter stare at each other for a long moment, at an impasse.

Julia clears her throat. She nudges Magnus, and he places her on the floor. “Okay, talk to me. What’s our options now?”

Magnus scrunches his brows, trying to take over comforting Stevie while thinking of a response. He gets two hands clasped on Stevie’s shoulders. “Everything’s going to be fine. Your pops’ got this under control,” he says softly. He looks over his shoulder to his wife. “I mean, we could go to some other town.”

“Not every town has a healer,” Julia says.

Davenport says his name in agreement.

“Seriously,” Taako grumbles, arms crossed over his chest. He inches back to the wheel, trying to keep an eye on the controls without being too obvious. “What the fuck have you fucks been doing?”

“Language,” Magnus says without thinking, eyes on Stevie as she waits for her to say something back. She only stares at her feet and scuffs the toe of her shoe on the ground.

Taako scoffs. “Really? You? _Language?”_

“I think...” Julia twists, trying to reach for the map until Davenport takes pity and unpins it from the table, handling it down to her. She skims over the region for a moment. “Figures. No temples listed. Neverwinter’s going to be our best shot.”

“So we’re going to just waltz in on the place where everyone’s trying to kill us.” Taako snorts. “Fuck. Yeah that’s great.”

“Language,” Magnus says again.

Julia hands the map back to Davenport, waits until he mulls through his thoughts and nods. “Nope. Not all of us at least.” Her voice turns sugary, the graceful calm of a mother. “Stevie. Dear. Can you go get you and your dad’s coats?”

Magnus whips around. “What?”

“Oh shit,” Taako says.

Magnus shoots him a glare. “What your fucking language.”

Taako cackles. “That’s the hitter! Right there!”

Stevie scrunches her face at Taako. It’s nothing much, but Taako finds his ears flickering downwards for a moment as her face returns to normal. “Okay!” She scampers back down the stairs, around the hole in the floor before disappearing below deck.

The atmosphere grows heavy until Magnus hears the last of Stevie’s small steps fade away. “Jules.” Every syllable is a sharpen edge. “What are you doing?”

“We don’t have time to bunny hop around Faerun until we can find a healer.” Julia tugs on the edge of the bandana, imaging the cloth can suffocate her. “Neverwinter’s our best shot, but we can’t raise any suspicions. Our best bet is to hide the _Starblaster_ at a distance and then send a few people into the city itself to find someone. Davenport and I can't really walk, and Taako can probably defend and fly the ship if the militia tracks us back here.”

Taako hums, tapping a nail on his chin as he ruminates over it. He nods, then checks the dials lining the control board. Davenport is already looking at the map again, trying to find a place suitable to land.

Magnus wrings his hands until he realizes what he’s even doing. They drop to his sides, fighting to make fists that he unclenches as soon as they form. He can see the end of her plan without her saying it. An old strategy from their days in the rebellion. If they needed to get something in and out of Raven’s Roost, they had to get the most unsuspecting people possible to smuggle it past Kalen’s guards. Families were always a safe bet, especially if children were involved. “And you want to put Stevie in all this?”

“You know—”

“Yeah. I do know. But this is our daughter we’re talking about. We might not make it past the militia. Someone might recognize me and she’ll be all on her own. Highwaymen could attack us before we even get there.”

Julia huffs. “We don’t have a choice.”

“Stevie isn’t your pawn! She’s our daughter. We’re supposed to protect her!”

“And I trust her father to keep her safe.” Only through sheer force of will does she pinch it back her urge to groan until her frustration is nothing more than the lines on her face. “The ship was just attacked. She doesn’t feel safe here—”

“ _You_ don’t feel safe here,” he snaps.

“Is she though? How many times did you die here?”

The look he gives her is downright harsh. She returns it in equal measure. “We’re not doing this,” Magnus says.

“Then what are we doing?” She doesn’t dare break her glare. “Just going to let Lucretia die?”

He groans, throwing his head back as he stomps a few feet away. “Fuck, Julia!”

Julia feels Davenport and Taako’s presence on the back of her head. Every snap of a word she and Magnus volley back and forth makes a bleeding tear in her chest. Her face screws up. And she sighs, letting the bubble of tension in the air pop. “I don’t even think Stevie can stand seeing me like this.” Her face softens. “And if we’re too late and Lucretia… Mags, I don’t want jinx it, but I can’t let her to see that. Just, please. Just this once. Take her with you.”

Magnus doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even meet her eyes.

Stevie comes up from the desk, her oversized coat half falling off her shoulders as she carries the oversized one that is her father’s. When he sees her, Magnus sighs and tries for a smile. “Thanks, bear cub.” He takes his coat. He pauses for another second, ending with a tired shake of the head and a ruffle to her hair. “Do me a favor and get both of our swords. We’re going on a mission.”

* * *

Stevie decides this is exciting. The flops her stomach does at the very idea of getting to do something just like adventurers do can be a lot of things, but she decides with all her might that it’s the butterflies before a fantastic performance. She repeats it over and over again in her head like a mantra, and it anchors her mind in the moment. Watching Uncle Davenport and Taako cast invisibility and protection spells around the ship is exciting. Taako casting _phantom steed_ and bringing the legendary Garyl to life is fun beyond belief. The heavy weight of her sword strapped to her hips is incredible, a long-held wish finally coming true. The way her mom, who does not look like her mom, but is apparently her mom, which is actually a bad thing since her leg and arm are gone—

Her mom kisses her check and tells her to be brave, and her dad picks her up by the waist and lifts her onto the magical binicorn and it’s fun. This is beyond exciting, reaching levels of sheer disbelief. Magnus climbs up behind her, and he takes a gentle fist full of elegant, rainbow hair. She copies him, already feeling unsteady without a saddle.

“See you two soon,” her mom says from the top of the ship’s gangplank, unable to join them on the ground without being able to walk. Or, so Stevie wants to think. Her mom and dad seem to be avoiding each other now, dancing around each other as plans for this mission were made. She’s not used to her parentings being nothing but her parents. She’s not sure what it means.

“We’ll be quick,” Magnus replies, adjusting the knitted cap on his head. Stevie realizes that she’s gotten so used to the sight of the red uniforms that it’s odd to see anyone, especially him, dressed in drab clothes of dark browns and grays. She searches and finds Davenport limping back up the gangplank, his proud captain’s jacket long gone. Only Uncle Taako is in brighter colors, and it’s a royal purple that’s trying to combat his bombastic hair. Stevie gets so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t feel her dad nudge her until the third time. “Are you going to say goodbye?” he asks.

She forces a grin and gives the biggest wave she can manage. “See ya!”

Taako smooth a hand down Garyl’s snout, scratching the spot between his eyes before pulling a handful of oats from nowhere. “Be cool,” he tells the steed.

“I’m always cool,” Garyl replies between bites.

“Rock on.” Taako looks up, skims his eyes over Stevie like she’s not there, before resting on Magnus. “Listen. On the off chance this goes horribly wrong, at least you married a competent woman.”

The deep rumble of Magnus’s hum brings her enthusiastic waving to an end. “Yeah. That’s a way of putting.”

“Yikes. Frosty.” Taako scratches Garly’s snout. “Yeah, well. Whatever. Hurry up. Lucy’s dying.”

“Alright, alright,” Magnus says, adjusting his position on Garyl one last time before flicking a small salute to his silent captain. Stevie tightens her grip on the rainbow colored hair, swallowing back the rise of bile up her throat. The picture of Lucretia on the deck, chest yawning open with the dark stains of blood is burned into her eyes. She closes them and she can see an inverted-color version of it mingle with the sunspots behind her eyelids. The need to throw up transforms into a need to cry, and it takes all of her effort to bite her tongue and blink away the tears before they can form.

A hand pats her hand, quick and small. She looks up in time to see Taako walk away, the glint of his ornate eyepatch distracting her eyes from the weight of her sword threatening to drag her off the steed.

Her dad leans in, the scruff of his beard against her ear. “Let’s go, bear cub.” He kicks the side of binicorn, and Garyl trots down the road towards Neverwinter.

Her brain screams for her to tell him about John. But she can’t, not when Aunt Lucretia’s life is in her hands. So she kicks the thoughts away, focusing on nothing else but the stretches of farmland ahead and the silky locks of Garyl’s mullet.

Above, the clouds break.

* * *

The rain is frigid. Stevie keeps her coat buttoned to the tip of her chin, scarf tucked inside to keep it all as warm as possible. But a chill brushes a hand down the length of her spine, and she shivers as her bare hands grip onto the multicolored mane of the binicorn. Her dad is as wet as she is, even wetter since he’s pulled the cap off his head and slipped it snug onto hers. Yet he’s a source of warmth, barely paying attention to the occasional comment he gives about the dark landscape of rolling farms. What is dusk turns into night, and they have to stop Garyl so that Magnus can light a lantern. He holds it above her head, his raised arm no longer trapping the scant heat. She shivers, watching the gold light disappear into the pitch of black ahead as rain punches her face.

This is fun, she tells herself. Like playing with her figurines. She is the woman knight. Pops and Garyl are her adventuring party. This isn’t a dark winding road but a mining shaft leading to a dwarf’s long lost treasure. This is an adventure. The day may barely be saved, but what’s a good legend without a little tragedy?

She doesn’t want to be a tragedy.

But she’ll rather think of tragedies and death if it means her eyes won’t trick her into seeing the swirling dark rainbow of the Hunger in the corner of her eyes, lingering in the shadowy outlines of farmland, a pair of sad blue eyes peering at her in the puddles that Garyl splashes with his hooves.

“Aw, shit.” Magnus pulls on Garyl’s hair, and the binicorn neighs to a stop. Stevie blinks through the shroud of rain. A far distance away is the imposing walls of Neverwinter, their stone heights containing a burst of light trying to escape. A little camp is set up just before the bridge that crosses the moat, where torches and magical-flames create the outlines of intimidating battlewagons, tents, and formal uniforms.

“What’s that?” Stevie asks.

Magnus grumbles, climbing off the binicorn. “The militia, if I had to guess.” He sorts through his bag of holding and pulls out a coil of rope. “Sorry, Garyl.” He starts to tie it around the binicorn’s snout, ignoring the way the steed mutters objections. “I promise there’ll be plenty of oats for you after this.”

“Why’s the militia there?” Stevie asks.

“Check point. Making sure nobody gets into the city without them knowing.” He ties the last knot snuggly, giving the rope a quick pull to make sure it won’t hurt the binicorn.

“Hold on, hold on, big guy,” Garyl says. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’m not into it.”

“Hey. Be cool,” Magnus orders.

“Yeah be cool,” Stevie parrots.

Garyl snorts and shakes his head. “Hell yeah I’m always cool.”

Stevie shifts, another shiver running down her spine. Her sword knocks into her hip, a constant presence. “What’re we gonna do?”

“We’re just going to walk on through.” Magnus shines the lantern onto the road, puddles in the muddle shining the light back at them. “Stevie.” His eyes are hard, brows furrowed in a way she doesn’t like. Instead of her shoulder, he places a hand on her knee and it feels like a pin that leaves butterflies on display. “When we go up to them, we have to play it cool, okay? I’m going to do all the talking. Don’t say anything to them. If one tries to talk to you, just shake your head. If they try to touch you, scream. I’m going to be right there for you. Okay?”

She buries her fade deeper into her scarf, hiding the tremble on her lips. She nods. Her stomach knots. This is fun.

Magnus walks a few feet in front of Garyl, pulling on the rope as he guides them towards the city. Stevie tangles her fingers deeper into the mane, squinting to make out one of the array of colors. She tries to imagine her coat into a suit of wonderful armor, her curls into the perfection of her woman knight figurine. But every chill of the rain, even ache in her legs, the uneven slosh of the road jolts her back to the dreary night and the shape of her father’s back as he brings them closer to the militia.

Hours past, but that’s not true. They move at a crawl towards the camp, but they do reach it. A big white tent is erect at the edge of the road, a few militia men already outside in order to search the covered wagon of an orc as she tries to leave the city. When one catches sight of Garyl, he hefts his own lantern high and waves his hands. “Prepare to halt.”

“Hail and well met,” Magnus says, stopping them just shy of the militia man.

Stevie can see that it’s a younger guy, his skin a strange mixture of human flesh and orange dragonborn scales. His eyes are black slits on pools of white, taking in the sight of a very large man guiding a two-horned unicorn through the rain, a child on top. His eyes skirt over the sides of the steed, and Stevie thinks that he’s eyeing her sword. But then he says, “Are you from nearby?”

Bags, Stevie realizes. They don’t have any traveling supplies.

Magnus grits his teeth, and she knows he’s come to the same realization. “Almost. Wife got injured on the road. We took refuge in an abandoned farm, but we need to get a healer.”

The militia man passes the light over Garyl’s mane, and Stevie can see the vibrant rainbow. He shines the lantern right into her face, causing her to wince and look away. “I’m going to have to ask you both to submit to a truth spell. Nothing major. Won’t take too long.”

“What? Didn’t you hear me? My wife needs a healer.”

“It’s just a few questions. Standard protocol.”

“She’s _dying.”_

“Let me grab my superior.” The militia man flags down a passing coworker, says something about watching over them, before rushing to the tent. This guy seems scarier than the other, his face set in a perpetual scowl as he glares down Magnus. Stevie prays that gaze is never directed towards her.

“ _Pssst_.” The orc at the covered wagon leans over as the search of her belongings finishes up. “I’m right here,” she says.

The tension in Magnus’s shoulders eases. “Thank you.”

The flap of the tent pushes open as the original militia man exits, this time accompanied by an older man. An oil poncho keeps the water off his uniform, and his boots are caked with enough mud to show that he does his fair share of work. He glances towards them. Magnus stiffens. The older man makes a gesture, and a few lower ranked militia men who had been heading in the opposite direction immediately fall into step behind him.

“Magnus Burnsides,” the older man says, approaching them with a confident gait. His voice sounds like two sheets of sandpaper scratching against each other. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” From beneath his mustache, he smiles. “Captain Captain Bane, in case you forgot.” He holds out a hand.

“No, I remember you.” Magnus takes his hand, and they shake with two grips of equal strength.

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” Bane continues. “She just doesn’t have the best of luck.”

“She, uh, is prone to do things that get her all scratched up.” Magnus frowns. “Listen. I’m not joking about the healer thing. We need to get in as soon as possible.”

“I understand that completely, but you have to understand, Mister Burnsides. We have reason to believe that there is a force at play that will soon be laying siege to Neverwinter. The Red Robes, I believe.”

Magnus makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a huff. “Seriously?”

“Do you have any information about the Red Robes we should be aware of?”

“We need a healer!”

“Aren’t you traveling with Lucretia?” Bane asks. “She’s a wonderful healer. More than capable with dealing even the most life threatening injuries.”

Magnus is quiet.

“I think it’ll be best for everyone involved if you let us do that truth spell,” Bane says in a low tone. “It’ll help clear the air around what I’m sure is just a misunderstanding.”

A light blinds Stevie. She lifts up a hand, squinting to make out the worn face of another militia man. He’s about her dad’s age, a five o’clock shadow shading his jaw as he peers at her curiously. Flanking him is about six other uniformed men, all of varying races. A dwarf is on her other side, studying Garyl’s hooves in silence. An elf and another human is directly behind the man with the lantern, muttering to each other in voices too low for Stevie to understand. She sits a little straighter, pressing her lips in silence.

“I don’t have time to waste on a healer,” Magnus says, back to her as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You do realize you’re wasting more time by refusing,” Bane says.

“Hey. Kid.” The militia man moves the lantern away from her face, letting her blink the spots from her vision. “Can you tell me where you’re coming in from?”

Stevie shakes her head.

“Don’t you care about Lucretia?” Magnus demands.

At this, Bane balks. “Of course I do. I just need to do my job thoroughly. There’s a threat to the city and, frankly, you’re not doing much to dissuade my worries.”

“C’mon.” The militia man raises his free hand, as if he can show her his friendliness on a platter. “I’m not asking anything hard.”

Still, she says nothing. She eyes the hilt of her small sword, hating that she doesn’t even know if she should draw it or not.

“You guys are in a hurry, right?” He moves his hand towards her, and Stevie finds herself leaning away on instinct. “Don’t you want to help your mom or—”

The moment his hand lands on her forearm, she screams. It’s a short note, brisk and startling, that cuts through the night air. The moment afterwards, she realizes there’s words she wanted to say instead. A simple “stop,” or even a slew of swears that’ll make even the roughest of guys shiver. Something more elegant than a wordless scream. But she doesn’t get the chance to think it over. Because the moment her scream slices through the air, Magnus reels around. He sees the militia man take his hand off Stevie. Without hesitation, Magnus punches him square in the jaw.

The man wheels back, landing in the mud with a cry. Every other member of the militia surrounding them draws their weapon—crossbows, swords, and all. Magnus doesn’t pay them any heed. He rushes to Stevie’s side, looking up at her as he tries to reach his hands up to her face. He makes it to her elbows instead. “Are you alright?” he says. His eyes are wider than she has ever seen them. It’s enough to make fear rupture through her veins.

Her hand snaps to the hilt, lifting up so that only a few inches of steel shine from the lantern light.

“Step away and put your hands up,” the elf barks as the dwarf and human help their downed comrade.

“He was harassing that little girl!” the orc with the covered woman shouts. A few members of the militia try to calm her, but she bats their words away with a sharp finger. “No, I saw that! He had his hand right on her!”

A deadly glare crosses Magnus’s face before he even turns around. “What the fuck—she’s ten, assholes!”

Captain Bane whistles. Every single one of his underlings look cowed, but the furrow in Magnus’s brows only deepen. “That’s enough, everybody. Boys, back off.” The surrounding militiamen exchange glances for a moment before each pair of feet back off by a step. Bane sends each one a look before facing Magnus again. “I am so sorry. That was completely inappropriate of them—”

“She’s ten,” Magnus says again.

“Again, I’m so sorry. That’s not what we should be doing here.” Bane’s eyes flicker, landing on the stub of revealed sword at Stevie’s hip. When he looks up at her, she flinches and shoves the sword back into the sheath. Everyone can hear the metals screech against each other. “Does she have a sword?”

Magnus’s frown only deepens. “Her mom’s a blacksmith.”

“Sure, but isn’t she a little young?”

“She likes adventuring.”

Bane arches a brow. “Adventuring?” He mulls over it for a moment, glancing between the father and daughter. “Can I ask her one—”

“No, she’s ten.”

“No truth spell.” Bane smiles in a way that makes Stevie want to hide. “Let me ask her a few things and I’ll send you on your way.”

“Um…” Both men look up at her—Bane the image of a man very pleased with himself, and her dad brimming with anger than makes her heartbeat travel to her temples. She takes a deep breath, seeing nothing but the woman knight figurine set up for play in her bedroom. “I can do it. Please, Pops?”

“No.” Magnus puts his hand on Bane’s shoulder pushing him back a few steps. “We’re leaving now.”

Bane’s eyes are trained on her. “Why do you want to be an adventurer?”

Magnus grabs the collar of Bane’s shirt, hunching so that their faces are together. All of his inferiors shout and reach for him, but Bane doesn’t blink. He holds up a stilling hand. “She’s _ten.”_

“Um…” Stevie feels the nerves jerk her knee, and her leg shakes up and down like a thumping rabbit. She watches the tension in her dad’s back increase tenfold. “My dad… he traveled the realm with my mom in order to defeat this really evil guy. I want to do that too.”

Magnus freezes.

“What evil guy?” Bane asks.

Stevie shifts. “Um, Kalen. Governor Kalen.”

The rain pours more than ever. Magnus’s grip on the captain’s collar never wanes. Bane nods. “Okay. You can pass through.” Magnus’s brows jump up, fingers loosening until Bane slips from his grasp. He smooths his collar to the best of his ability, the water slicking off his oil poncho with every movement. When he looks properly presentable, he extends a hand towards the bridge spanning across the moat. “Go right ahead. There’s a temple on Prince Avenue that’s particularly well known for their medicinal magicks.”

Magnus grabs the rope to Garyl’s snout, his gaze drifting over ever militia man watching. The orc at the covered wagon gives a happy thumb’s up. “Thanks.” He tugs the rope. The binicorn has enough sense to huff like an animal instead of making a retort. “Stevie, let’s go.”

He only makes it a few steps when Bane steps in his path. “One more thing.”

“For fuck’s sake—”

Bane steps into his face, so close that their chests are practically touching. He’s shorter than Magnus, and yet the dangerous gleam in his eyes is enough to make Magnus freeze. His voice is low, loud enough for only Magnus to hear over the pounding rain. “My job is to keep people safe. Whether that’s checking things here or dealing with the evil you made.”

Magnus doesn’t breathe.

“But I can’t do anything about that now. Like you said, Burnsides.” He jerks his head towards Stevie. “She’s ten.”

Bane steps back, congeniality shining on his face ones more. “The roads are much too dangerous to bring a child along,” he says in perfect volume for everyone to hear. “Consider leaving her home next time.”

Magnus glares. Every pair of spectating eye burns into his back. With a sharp tug, he leads Stevie and Garyl past Bane and towards Neverwinter. Stevie turns to see the orc woman drive her wagon away and Captain Bane stand in the rain, watching them leave the camp. Shadows cover his face.

John. The workshop had been warm and comforting, his old face open and bright in the hearth light. Stevie thinks she’s about to barf, but instead finds her head physically shaking the intrusive thoughts away. She doesn’t want to think about it.

* * *

They’re barely through the gates of Neverwinter, making their way down the deserted streets towards Prince Avenue, when Stevie speaks up. “I’m sorry.”

Her dad looks up at her, the tension still painting a clear presence on his features. But his eyes are kind, and she tries to focus only on their worry instead of the sickly swirl in her stomach. “What? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You said to stay quiet and…” She shrugs, chills racing up and down her arms. The gas lamp posts paint the world in a homely yellow, but its warmth does not spread to the drowned cobblestone road.

He stops. Both arms rise. “Come here.” She leans down until she’s within reach for a hug. The angle is awkward, but he’s warm. Even through her jacket she can feel his hand smooth up and down on her back. “I was so scared for you back there. You always talk about the Power Bear, and I was sure. I was so sure I was going to lose you there. But you surprised me, bear cub. You knocked it right out the park.”

She presses her face into his wet hair, feeling bits of tears in her eyes. “I was scared.”

“So was I. And you know what?” He pulls her back, hands cupping her cheeks. The smile on his face is forced, but not in a bad way. A normal smile can’t convey the amount of pride he feels. “You’re stronger than me. If I was you, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. You’re so smart. I’m so proud of you.”

“You are?”

He nods. “Definitely. You’re already a great hero, Stevie.”

She basks in the warmth his words give her for the rest of the trek to the temple, her smile big and stupid. She replays the encounter with the militia in her head over and over again, trying to commit every detail to memory. She did what her dad said to do, but she also knew to go to her sword. Her instincts said that she could help, and she ran with it. She’s smart! She’s a great hero!

This is great.

As the calm silence settles back between them, she keeps her head low to hide her goofy grin. Then her brain stumbles back into John. The grin flattens, then turns into a determined line. She takes a deep breath and looks up at the street ahead. This time, she thinks about it.

* * *

Isaak writes in his diary all the details the grieving family has to offer him. Their brewery is attached to a small cottage that’s nowhere near big enough to house as many children as it does, yet halfling boys and girls of every age weave between the small rooms and the main brewery with the grace and elegance that’s lost on the diary keeper. He tries to focus on the crying husband and the wife who’s just barely keeping it together, but every so often a pair of green eyes will catch his, and he finds his hand stilling mid-sentence. His page is filled with plenty of fragmented thoughts he was too clumsy to finish.

The wife smooths a hand on her husband’s back. “We’ve just been looking for her for so long,” she explains. “We tried contacting the militia, but they wouldn’t do anything for us.”

“I wouldn’t imagine the militia caring much,” Isaak says. He shifts in his seat, more and more aware with how big he is compared to them. He has never been a tall or wide guy, but the wife and husband aren’t bigger than a human child. It’s odd, but he knows he only thinks so since halfings rarely come too far into the Wolven Gultch. “The folk in the big city don’t much care for the guys on the outskirts. It’s the scattered sheriffs and occasional deputies for each town who might lend a hand. But again, that ain’t much gonna do anything for folk outside their view if you get what I mean.”

The wife bobs her head. “Of course, of course.”

The husband sits up, dragging his large hands down his face to reveal a pair of swollen eyes. “There’s a rumor going around,” he says. “That Phandalin’s gone.”

Isaak releases a long breath. “Are you looking for the truth or would ya rather—”

“We sent Noelle with the newest shipment.” The wife tries to soothe him, but a burst of rage swells up his throat. “It’s not Neverwinter—or hell, it’s not Raven’s Roost. Nothing ever happens there. She should’ve been safe! My oldest should’ve—”

Finally, the wife clamps her hands on his shoulder and hushes him with the precision of a woman who runs a cider empire, not a mom and pop business. When she turns her eyes to the diary keeper, he’s amazed to find the green to be less like grass and more like the jade brooches on the coats of the hoity-toity flooding the city streets. “Do you have a family?”

“Had my daddy,” he replies.

“That’s not what I’m asking. Is there anyone you call family?”

Isaak wishes that there is a sign he can give—some kind of involuntary reaction to the memories that flood his brain. A hint of what he wants to happen beneath the surface. But his hand is smooth as he jolts down a few notes. “I did. Once. Not much left of ‘em now.”

The wife’s face is filled with a whole new intensity. “Can’t you see why we don’t want to be sweet-talked? I want the facts. Do you think my daughter is going to be okay?”

He closes his diary. “Ma’am. I’ll be frank. I saw Phandalin after it happened. The world was black. Black, black glass. There ain’t no building left it’s been so flattened out. I have been to every little back of the woods house in the area trying to find some kind of survivor, but no one heard zip.” He softens. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t see a way your daughter could’ve made it out.”

The husband is sobbing once again. There’s no children rushing around his feet, but he can feel their eyes peer at him from around corners. He can hear their sniffles as a few break down in sorrow. Twin trail of tears branch down the wife’s face. She tilts her chin up higher and brushes them away brusquely. “Thank you for the honesty,” she says at last.

“I’m mighty sorry for all this.”

“It’s not your fault.” She presses her lips together. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

He does, but he doesn’t say. Her question haunts him as he meanders down the road, plagues his brains for nights on end as the crowded forests give way to rolling farmland. Sometimes, when resting beneath a tree to escape the intense midday sun, he thumbs through his writings for a hint he failed to see before. Something that will elucidate an answer to who the Red Robes are and why they’ve brought this blight upon this land. None come to him.

Then he arrives in Neverwinter. The city buzzes with the same two words, chirped at every merchant stall and giggle in every tidbit of child play that dances through the autumn air. Isaak pulls his scarf down and takes off his wide brim hat, as if it’ll make the rumors any clearer to understand—the Red Robes have been here.

He pulls out his diary, flags down the nearest shopkeeper, and starts asking questions.

By nightfall, he manages to figure out which bars in the city the locals flock to and finds himself stealing the corner table of the Wassailing Beggar. It’s a rowdy place, filled with a collection of adventures who’ve made the capital city their home base. The booze is plentiful though, and Isaak is already through his first flagon of ale when a bard with an accordion throws a foot onto the nearest chair, and pulls his instrument out and in to make a curling song:

_Attend! Attend! Listen to me!_

_As I give thee the true story_

_Of those Red Robes numbered three_

_And the fight of the century!_

The bar’s patrons shout out, many booing the cheeky bard while others shout for everyone to shut up and let him tell his tale. Isaak’s not sure which party he’s in. You can never believe a bard’s tale, but maybe there’s something important in this one.

The bard smiles until his cheeks squish his eyes out of existence, and starts singing again:

_Little to know, little to say_

_Of these villains to rue the day_

_A dwarf, an orc, a human man_

_They be that party numbered three._

“Hey!” A dragon born woman stands on her table, slender and blue scaled as she sways under the influence of alcohol. “This is a bullshit thing!”

The patrons’ voices rise up again, and Isaak sees the bard’s eye twitch.

_They're not heroes, I will tell thee_

_Murderers are they, number three_

_From a distant land across the sea_

_They had left aft--_

A thrown knife stabs into the accordion’s canvas, causing the music to turn into a strained whine. The bar roars with laughter. “ _Bullshit!_ ” The dragonborn says again, balancing a second knife between her fingers as she gestures for everyone to turn their attention onto her. “Listen, listen, listen. Guys. I don’t want to brag but I’ve met those doofuses. They’re not that cool.”

“Boo!” A gnome man says, jabbing his thumb downwards. “Bullshit!”

“Bullshit!” cry various other voices of the bar.

An elf woman climbs on top of her chair, laughing as she tries to balance. The soft light of the gas lamps make her ginger curls blaze with gold, delicate hands rising as she tries to garner the bar’s attention. The sigil of a religious order emblazons the front of her robe. “I met them too. Just the other day.”

The dragon woman’s huffs. “Bullshit.”

Before the chorus can echo the word back, the elf rambles, “No, dead serious. Same day as the ship flying over. There I was, doing my nightly duty, when this man comes rushing in with this story about his wife out in the country needing healing. So I packed my bags, saddled my horse, and joined the two on the road.”

“Two?” Isaak says aloud. The bar’s gotten quiet enough that his voice is heard, and the beautiful elf waves a hand in his direction.

“A man and a little girl, but that’s not important. We go an hour outside of the city until we come upon what looked like a building. But there was a shimmer on it, and I felt something was wrong in my heart. So I casted _true sight._ And there, right before my eyes, was the same ship. Red hull, silver sails. Right there, in the rain.” They could hear dust settle on the tabletops as the elf takes a moment to breathe. “And I went on it. And I didn’t see a red robe—I mean, a robe that’s colored red. But I saw a group people injured beyond belief. Broken bones, amputated limbs—a sword stabbed all the way through. And, bless my god, I managed to heal them all.”

“Then what happened?” someone asks.

“I left. I got paid, then the same man escorted me off the ship. Made me promise not to tell anyone what I saw.” A thought pops in her head, and she sways at a precarious angle in order to lean down and scoop up her glass. She raises it high in the air. “To broken promises!”

“Here! Here!” Everyone takes a swing.

The crowd swarms the pretty elf, begging to know more about what she saw. Even the bard and his broken accordion lean in close, hoping to catch a sliver of what these Red Robes could possibly be. What are they like? Why are they here? Isaak finishes up his drink, waiting for the throng to disperse. He wants to talk to the elf one on one. Record everything else she has locked away in her mind.

“I can’t believe they fell for all that.” The dragonborn woman slides into the chair across from him, arms folded over chest as she fiddles a knife between her claws. She snorts. “Probably because she has a pretty face and everything.”

Isaak watches the silver blade pass between her fingers, the light catching with every pass. “You don’t believe her?”

A shrug. “Don’t know. Seems like them.”

Isaak simmers on that for a long moment. “Pardon, but may I ask what they call you?”

Her canines make for a vicious grin. “Carey. And you, mysterious stranger?”

“Isaak. Nothing more.” He flips through a few pages of his diary, finding the emptiest page possible. “Would it be quite alright if I bother you to tell your story of the Red Robes?”

“Really?” Carey quirks a brow, yellow eyes sliding over the tired shadows under his eyes, the scruffy beard on his jaw he hasn’t gotten the chance to shave. “Why?”

“Call me curious.”

Carey thinks for a moment, then leans back and raises a hand. “Another round over here!” When she turns back, there’s a wicked excitement all over her face. “Alright then. I met them a few months ago, while on a job for a pretty wicked client.”

* * *

“Davenport.” Magnus wakes with a jolt, blinking as Lucretia’s room comes back into focus. The soft glow of the voidfishes’ tank shadows Davenport’s face in blue, the exhaustion weighing heavy in his eyes.

For a moment, all Magnus does is blink. Then he remembers volunteering to stay up at Lucretia’s side, just in case she woke up and needed someone. “Shit.” And there she is, still asleep in her bunk, chest bound in thick white bandages as the magic the cleric pumped into her veins stitches her back together. “Shit, I—god, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I—”

“Davenport.” He winces at his own words. He pats Magnus’s shoulder, then gestures towards the door. Get some sleep.

It’s three in the morning when Magnus shuffles back down the hallway. There’s no light to guide his way, not even a sliver glow of yellow peeking out from under someone’s door. Magnus stops by Stevie’s room, opening the door just wide enough to catch her curled on her side, eyes closed and mouth wide as she sleeps. He listens to her steady breaths and releases one he doesn’t realize he’s holding.

He tries to sneak back into his own room without making a noise, but it doesn’t matter. The moment he closes the door behind him, he hears Julia roll over. He freezes, but no words comes from her mouth. He waits, then starts pulling his shirt over his head. He doesn’t bother with pajamas. He unbuckles his belt, shucks off his shorts, then climbs into the bed. He turns onto his side, staring at the door. Sleeping upright in the chair has left his back aching.

Finally, Julia speaks. “Hey.” It was nothing more than a wispy sound, the shell of a whisper.

Magnus sighs and closes his eyes. “Go to sleep.”

“I don’t want you to go to bed mad.”

He thinks about it for a moment. “I already did.”

Now it’s her turn to think—strategize her way through a problem, like she always does. “Magnus, I get—”

“I’m going to bed. Night.”

He can hear her swallow back a groan, trying to be as gentle as possible. “You’re not being fair, Magnus. Let’s talk.”

He turns over, staring up at the ceiling. “Jules—”

“You know I was just trying to do what was best for her.”

More than anything, he wants to look at her and see the last silver rays of moonlight drench her hair. He wants to brush his hand down the side of her face and neck and chest, and he wants to kiss all that he can touch. But his chest aches, smoldering red hot until he feels like he can rip his skin clean off. So he kicks off his blankets, climbing out of bed.

“Magnus,” Julia says, but he cuts her off.

“I’m going to go get some sleep,” he says, picking his clothes off the floor. He doesn’t look back at her. He doesn’t know what will happen if he does. “See you in the morning.” And he slips out through the door again, ignoring the break in her voice as she asks him to come back.

The hallway is cold and empty. His feet make loud noises as he lumbers to the common room, planning on stealing a couch to nap on. It’s when he pulls his clothes back on and hears the creak of the sofa supporting his weight does tears prick in his eyes. Sleep is the last thing he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that this chapter was me realizing that I had accidentally set up a plot point about needing a healer, then struggling to wrap it up as best as I could. Honestly, considering how filler-like this chapter could've been, I think I did a pretty decent job making this seem like it was a part of the plan all along. Of course, in the grand tradition of this fic, Taako's emotional start got brushed to the side in favor of all this, but it's a sacrifice that had to be made.
> 
> If you want to know more about the things that happened in this chapter, like.... um... various commentary on every sequence, feel free to read the additional notes for this chapter here: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/178998314341/northern-migration-chapter-22-notes-preview
> 
> Thank you so much for being so patient with me. You guys overwhelmed me with the response for last chapter, and I paid you back by not updating this as soon as I would have liked. I am back in school right now, so I think I'm going to go back to doing the shorter chapters just so that I can give you guys more stuff to read as often as possible. I really want to make something you guys can enjoy, and I want to keep giving it as often as possible. Thank you so much for being really fantastic about it all! xoxoxoxoxxoxoxo


	23. In Which Taako Loses His Cool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taako gets some answers he doesn't like. Arguments abound!

The Hammerhead base is on fire. Militia tape already seals off the street, a combination of battlewagons and sheer manpower pushing back the crowd of spectators. Wizards cast dampening spells over the warehouses as non-magic users rush water from the canal by the bucket-load. The stench of smoke makes Taako gag and, despite the hot weather, he pulls his scarf up and over his nose.

“How the hell did Merle manage to do this?” Magnus asks. He has Stevie on his shoulders, holding her calves in place as she scans the crowd. When his eyes finally reach Taako, a brow arches. “You doing okay?” The amount of care on his face is disgusting, especially when he and his wife are still in the middle of some kind of argument.

Taako doesn’t get it. He was there when it all went down yesterday, with the healer situation and all. Somehow this version of Magnus is still furious. At least, Taako thinks he is. Between getting his first proper night’s sleep in three years and having to trek across Goldcliff with Magnus, he’s hasn’t had enough time to scout out all the details of this marriage-arrangement-thing. But he knows that he’s already caught Magnus sleeping on the couch, which makes Julia less than shining in his books.

“Taako,” Magnus says, as if he didn’t brush away every word his wife sent his way before taking their daughter with him into this jaunt to find the old man.

“Peachy,” Taako finally grumbles back, rocking onto the tips of his toes to peer over the crowd’s shoulders. “Why the fuck can’t that old perv just answer his stanking stone for once?”

“Found him!” In her excitement, Stevie almost falls off Magnus’s shoulders. She grabs his hair, causing his to shout in pain as she pulls herself upright again. “Hey! Merle!” She waves her hands high in the air. “Over here! Uncle Merle!”

“Uncle,” Taako says, craning his neck for any sign of the dwarf.

He can hear the light smile flit across Magnus’s face. “Technically, you’re her uncle too.”

He glowers. “Fantastic.”

Between the legs of two spectating orcs, Merle weaves through. He looks refreshed, a cup of coffee in one hand as he throws a wave up to Magnus and Stevie. “Hey, you two.”

“Uncle Merle!” Stevie jumps off Magnus’s shoulders, causing him to swear and grab the back of her shirt before she can hit the ground. The moment he places her down safely, she throws her arms around the dwarf and squeezes.

He wheezes, struggling to keep his coffee steady as air evacuates his lungs. “For every living—let me go!”

She only squeezes harder, causing him to squeak like a toy. “No!”

Taako picks at his nails, scanning the throng from a hint of blue. “No offense,” he says. “But where’s Barry?”

Merle freezes, turning his head enough to really notice for the first time who’s standing next to Magnus. “Taako?”

Taako ignores him, giving Magnus a slant frown. “You said that Barry’s with Merle, right? I didn’t mishear that.”

Magnus looks pained, hesitating before saying: “You didn’t get him.”

Merle finally shucks Stevie away, throwing an entire arm towards Taako. “Forget Barry! When did _you_ get back?”

“Yesterday.” He shrugs. “Keep up, old man.”

“Pops?” Stevie looks up at her dad, eyes wide. “Is Uncle Barry okay?”

“He’s…” Magnus stops, sighing as he retools his answer. “Barry’s capable of handling himself. Wherever he is, I’m positive he’s alright.”

“Seriously.” Taako ignores every large gesture of the dwarf’s, how he points between Taako and empty air, on the verge of a break down. “What the fuck is going on? You said this morning that Merle’s with Barry, but apparently some clingy three year old knows more about all this shit than I do!”

“Taako.” Magnus’s voice is stone cold. At his side, Stevie looks cowed only for a moment. She musters her bravery to her chest, standing with her legs straddled and her arms akimbo. “Watch it.”

Taako crinkles his nose. “You watch it.”

“Hold on, hold on. Fellas, calm your horses.” Merle steps between the two men, patting the air as the tension grows. He takes a casual sip of his coffee, watching with an arch brow as Magnus’s eyes challenges Taako’s steely anger to a fight. “Listen, Taako. I’m glad you’re here. We’re all over the moon about it. But a lot’s happened since you left. Especially in these last few months. Once we’re back on the ship, we’ll grab Dav and we’ll have a big talk about the news around here. It’s a lot. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”

Taako looks away, training his eyes onto the dirt. “Yeah, whatever.”

Magnus releases an unsteady breath, running a hand through his air. “Alright. Sure. Let’s go then.”

Merle holds up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Magnus?” Even the flowers in his beard seem to sparkle as he gives an amused look. “Chill out, man. Just take it all a step at a time.”

He almost smiles. “Okay, old man.”

* * *

Davenport waits for them at the helm, adjusting the piece of cloth tied over his missing eye. He feels them step past the illusionary walls he built around the ship and dries the sweat on his hand down the front of his nice slacks. Stevie’s excited ramblings fill the air and, as they come up the gangplank, he sees her moving her arms about in an energetic recounting of last night. He does a quick head count—Stevie, Magnus, Taako, and Merle. No Barry. A hum of emotion stirs in his gut, but he pushes it out.

Captain Davenport marches to the top of the stairs, the heavy cast of his ankle thumping all the way. “It was so cool!” Stevie gushes. She takes a deep breath, revving up to start again, when Davenport coughs.

Merle looks at the gnome standing imposing above him, hands hidden behind his back. His eyes don’t light up. In fact, Davenport can see how he flinches. “Dav…” He laughs nervously, ambling towards the bottom of the stairs.

“Shit,” Magnus hisses. Then: “Stevie, you didn’t hear that.”

“Okay,” Stevie says.

Uncomfortable. Merle doesn’t hide how little he wants to look at the cast on Davenport’s ankle, or the healing scratches and bruises, or the cloth covering half his face. He starts to say something before letting the words die before they start. Starting and stalling, until he at last holds his hands up in defeat. “You have every right to be mad at me—”

Davenport’s brows furrow. He steps past him, moving the end of his right arm into his pocket. Without looking back at Merle, he steps down the stairs and clears his throat again, this time at Taako and Magnus.

They stare, owlish. Stevie makes a face before scampering below deck, out of the line of fire. Taako grimaces. “Listen...” He slides closer to the stairs leading down. “We’re going to have a meeting in a bit and I, uh, I gotta check for spies and all that.”

He glares, then directs the next cough at Magnus.

Magnus lifts his hands up. “Merle will tell you,” he says, inching after Taako. “And _you’ll_ tell Merle.” He breaks into a run, picking up Taako as he goes and getting them both to safety.

Davenport scowls at their retreating back, about to shout at them when he remembers himself. He takes a deep breath.

“Dav.” Merle lumbers closer, certain to linger just a few feet back. “I, uh… listen. I heard about the whole healer thing, and I get that I’m not your favorite person right now. And it’s just…” He groans. “Barry was right there. I was so close and I almost got him, and I fucked it up. I get it. I fucked that one up.”

He presses his lips together. The air is still as he gives a curt nod.

“Would you look at me?”

Davenport turns. Merle is still a safe distance away, somber-faced as he studies the cloth around the gnome’s face. And they stare at each other. Davenport shoves his arm deeper into his pocket.

“Well?” Merle gestures vaguely. “Is that it? Don’t you have anything you wanna say to me?”

Davenport squares his shoulders and marches towards him. He watches Merle tense, trying to keep his anger on his sleeve, until he passes him. Merle turns on his heel, watching Davenport go back up the stairs. “That’s it?” he demands. “You don’t have anything to say?”

At the helm, Davenport sends him a short glare and smacks a stack of papers and maps on the table. At this distance, Merle is nothing more than a mirage in his eye.

“I can’t believe…” He stomps up the stairs and smacks his hands on the table. “I get it! You’re pissed at me, but you’re a grown man, Dav. You can’t just ignore me.”

Davenport pretends to find a certain paper he needs, his left hand shaking as he grabs it and tries to walk away. Merle grabs his arm and before Davenport can think to shout or do anything, he drops it again. Merle swallows, contrition clear on his features. “Just… just damn it, Dav. I know I’m bad at this whole talking thing. But you’re shit at it too. Can you at least try to work with me here?”

Davenport keeps walking.

“You know what? I’m done.” Davenport turns, a panicked look on his face as he watches Merle pull at his beard. “Believe it or not, I’m trying. I’ve been trying every day to make this right somehow, and every time I think we’re going to be okay, you lock up again and I can’t get inside. I can’t ever know what you’re supposed to be feeling, yet I’m—” He groans. “I don’t even know what I am! Boyfriend? Husband? Friend with benefits? I don’t know, Andrew! I’ve never known!”

At the sound of his first name, Davenport flinches. Frustration boils in his gut, and he wants nothing more than to snap right back at Merle—remind him of all the times he refuses to listen, how deep into his own head he gets that Davenport feels like no words can ever get through. How he’s supposed to be someone everyone admires. How feelings are things to be loathed. But when he slaps the paper on the desk, ending Merle’s tirade with a startle, the only word that comes from his mouth is one terse “Davenport.”

Merle snorts. “Yeah. Fine. I don’t know you, _Davenport._ I’m not sure how I can be anything with you, _Davenport,_ because you don’t tell me anything, _Davenport_.”

“Davenport.” He feels the tremble running up and down his arms, his fingers tightening until the paper crumbles beneath. His face burns, and he’s not sure if it’s from anger or shame.

“Yeah.” Merle huffs. “That’s your name. Andrew-fucking-Davenport.”

“Davenport!” He whirls around, chucking the crumbled paper. Even though it hits with only a pathetic tap, Merle still flinches. Without realizing it, Davenport pulls his amputated hand out from his pocket in a sharp gesture. Merle gasps. “Davenport, Davenport, Davenport—”

“What are you—”

Davenport lunges across the table, knocking over a cup of pencils in his hurry. His hand finds a pencil that’s nothing more than a bite-ridden stub, and he scrambles to get a plain sheet of paper closer. He can hear Merle rambling in the background, a mixture of questions and apologies filling the air, but he doesn’t care. He thinks about all the words he wants to say, of how badly he needs to get his voice out to be heard. His non-dominant hand scribbles uneven lines onto the page that connect and turn into letters. And a single thought.

Davenport stares at the paper. The lead lines mock him:

_D A V E N P O R T_

A sob ruptures through his chest. His knees give out, and he falls onto the ground, face pressed into his lap as his own name rings through his head like the soulful echoes of bells in an empty town. He’s Davenport, and that’s all anyone will ever know about him now. He’s Davenport. Davenport, Davenport, Davenport—

“Hey.” Merle crouches, his face mere inches away. He slips one hand into Davenport’s. The other caresses around the stump of his wrist. It’s bizarre, sending his nerves alight with worry. But Davenport doesn’t shy away. He buries his face deeper into himself, hiccupping as Merle’s soft but calming voice washes over him. “You’re going to be alright. I got you, Dav. I got you.”

Davenport weeps.

* * *

The Ethereal Plane is a gray overlay upon the physical world, oppressive in its silence. Taako meanders down the monochromatic halls of the _Starblaster_ , twirling his glaive around his fingers. He whistles a whirling tune, but the pointed notes can’t break the atmosphere. The world is quiet, and he’s choking on it. He wants to get this over with, but he still has to do a good job. He’s the only one who can cast _blink._

The bottom floor’s engine and storage rooms were clear, but here in the living quarters, he finds trouble. The Hunger’s spies—three of them, gangly humanoids with limbs too long to fit the body, crouch like spiders as they crowd a specific door. Taako only stalls for a moment. Like always, one turns its head, landing all twenty of its mismatched eyes on him. The others turn as well, each with a different collection of eyeballs that makes bumps race down the length of his arms. They don’t have mouths, but they don’t seem to need them. With each blinking eye, he can feel them flashing their metaphorical fangs. Then they scurry away, crawling like spiders around the floor before a new rift in the plane opens. They slip through, no doubt off to report to the Hunger.

Taako flips them off, holding it until the rift closes. Without him to _blink_ into the Ethereal Plane, the Hunger must have been spying on them for months now. Davenport’s going to freak out when he realizes how much information they might have revealed without meaning to. But really, that’s what they all get for thinking they could make it through without the Taaco-Loop twins. Shrugging, he starts for the kitchen where the meeting will actually be taking place, when he notices which door he’s standing in front.

He hesitates for a moment, then phases his head through.

It’s not Lup’s room anymore. Her posters are still on the walls, a few knick-knacks from various planes scattered on the dresser and desk, but the floor is now covered with piles of clothes that are not hers, various figurines arranged around them. Stevie is in the middle of the room, a wood stick in hand as she parries with an invisible foe. She shouts and quips whenever she pretends to land a hit, once stopping to think of a line better than before.

Taako frowns. He pulls his head back through the door, storming with soundless steps down the rest of the hallway.

* * *

The cannonball-size hole in the ceiling is sealed by a white tarp, one taped to the edges of the splintered wood, the middle sagging downwards from an invisible weight. A few of the cabinets have holes from where the cannonball richoted with the turn of the ship, the side of the metal stove dented inwards. The cannonball itself sits on the table, a silly face of an over exaggerated pair of glasses and a doozey squiggle for a mouth, the side labeled the _Baller Barry Bluejeans_ _._

Davenport’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes stained red when he starts the meeting with a vague gesture towards Lucretia and Julia. Lucretia is barely upright, her chest bounding in tight bandages that should keep all the blood inside until she heals completely. She’s ashy faced, leaning back in her kitchen chair with her legs propped on Julia’s lap. Julia also looks exhausted, a few bandages littering her skin as she soothes a hand up and down Lucretia’s calf. She wears a large button down shirt, the left-hand sleeve tied into a tight knot at her shoulder. She stares at Davenport for a second, blinks, then looks at Lucretia. “Uh, what?”

Davenport repeats himself, which garners the same uncomfortable uncertainty the first time did.

“I, uh…” Merle scratches his neck, a hand holding Davenport’s for comfort. The gnome’s grip is strong, and Merle struggles to return the strength in equal. “Um… maybe twenty questions? Charades?”

“Is it about the chore list?” Magnus asks with a wink of misplaced levity. He sits on the other side of the table, next to Taako. He pretends to not be stealing glances towards Julia at every beat, as if waiting for her to incriminate herself.

“Oh my god.” Julia bites back the rest of her irritation, trying to give Davenport and the situation the patience they deserve. “Sorry. Um… do you want us to start the meeting?”

Davenport bites back the noise that wants to travel up his throat and nods.

“You do it,” Lucretia mutters when Julia turns to her.

“You sure?” she replies.

Taako groans. He turns so he’s half turned from everyone else, legs crossed as the side of his face covered with an eyepatch aimed at the rest of them. “Seriously, I don’t have all day,” he says drumming his fingers. “Someone say something before I die.”

Lucretia nudges Julia one last time. With a final shake to the head, she resigns herself to her fate. “Okay, so the Hunger first popped up at Midsummer—”

Taako rolls his eyes, moving his whole head in the motion for emphasis. “Nope. Try again.”

She scrunches her brows. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Start at the beginning,” Taako says, enunciating every syllable. “Right after I left. What the hell did I miss?”

It’s like she’s been punched. Julia stares at him, open-mouthed as he continues to give her an expectant look. “I’m not the best person to ask—”

He waves her off. “Yeah, yeah. Cool.” He props his chin on his hand, his grin a thin plastic thing that makes the way he hunches seem slimy. “Magnus. Buddy. Best… _compadre_. Mind, uh, elaborating on the fuck is going on here?”

“I can tell ya,” Merle offers.

“Zip it, Showed-Up-Twenty-Minutes-Late-With-Coffee.”

Merle grumbles, about to fold his arms over his chest when he remembers to keep a hand on Davenport’s. “It was a macchiato.”

“Oh my god,” Lucretia grumbles. “Let’s get a move on already.”

So, Magnus tells the story. He starts with who left the _Starblaster_ and when, where they went, and how their life turned out. Lucretia became a healer, Barry a scientist, and himself a carpenter. Davenport and Merle stayed together. Barry and Lucretia stayed single. Magnus married Julia. Then came Stevie, and time floated them all through the motions of a life beyond the Hunger and the Light of Creation. And Magnus tells Taako about how great it all was—the birthdays Taako missed, the Candlenights minus the twins, the memories of being a family— and how violently the Hunger ripped that security from them. Taako is quiet through all of it, letting his nods and facial expressions convey what little thoughts he wants them to know.

When Magnus gets through the events of these past few months, recounting all that has led to their reunion and then some (with additions from Merle every now and then), Lucretia sits up. She drags her hand over her face, trying to wipe the exhaustion away. “You ran into Bane?”

“ _Mmhmm.”_ Magnus directs his frown at The Baller Barry Bluejeans's face. The cartoon eyes are easier to handle than whatever face Julia is making. If she’s even disturbed by this news. But she’s Julia so she has to be, but then she’s Julia and she weighs a plan higher than anything else—

“God.” Lucretia pinches the bridge of her nose. “If he knows about us, then he’s probably with Killian and the rest.”

“Are we ever going to meet anyone who isn’t out to kill you guys?” Julia says.

“Us,” Magnus says.

Her stare is sharp. “No, I married into this.”

“Could’ve—” He stops the thought before it can finish. He rolls the Baller Barry Bluejeans closer, pushing it back and forth between his hands.

“ _Yikes.”_ Merle tugs at the collar of his floral shirt, teeth together as he gives husband and wife a sympathetic look. “What’s raining down on Happily-Ever-After-Ville?”

Magnus wrings his hands. Julia turns her hard face towards Merle. “What about Barry?” she says. “You said you lost him again. Have you tried parley?”

Merle hisses. “Yeah, about that. I gave it a spin, but he’s not replying. Honestly, I don’t think he can. They know he’s doing it now. They’re probably figuring out a way right now to make sure he never does it again.”

Magnus freezes, the cannonball stopped between his hands. “So now he’s in enemy hands and we can’t talk to him again. That’s just fucking great—we shouldn’t’ve left him there in the first place. Great. Fantastic. Real fucking smart move on our part.”

“Davenport,” the captain snaps.

“Calm your jets,” Merle says. “What is up with everyone being pissed off today? We should be celebrating! Yeah, nothing really went to plan this time around, but Taako’s here. That’s something, isn’t it? That’s a step closer. Here. I’ll go grab us some wine and—”

Taako hums. It’s a long, in-your-face sound that makes everyone pause. He sits up, drumming his fingers on the table as he muses through all that he’s learned. The stub of a ponytail that is his hair starts to fray, wisps falling loose and framing his jaw. It’s a hard moment to sit through until Taako says, “so, uh, why are we even bothering with all this?”

Everyone stares.

“Davenport?” Davenport says.

Taako gestures around the table. “This. Like. Okay. Our big scheme to hide in plain sight didn’t work. Let’s just skedaddle at the end of the year and try again. Didn’t Lucy have this wall idea—”

Davenport starts saying his name over and over again, frustration clear on his face as he tries to work through it. Merle rubs a hand on his back, trying to soothe him. They all stare, waiting to see if the captain will find a way to sort through his words and make his meaning clear. He doesn’t.

Julia clears her throat. Without her signature mass of unruly curls, the harden look on her face stands in the open with nothing to soften its blow. The hard set of her jaw is enough to make Taako’s knee jump with a nervous, rabbit-like tick. “You can’t seriously be that stupid.”

“Jules,” Magnus says, exhausted.

It’s her turn to be frustrated. “What?”

Taako’s mouth is an uneven line. He presses a hand on his knee, forcing it to stay in place. “Listen. I’m not the smartest fellow in the pond, but like. I know my stuff. You guys’ been at this for what? Four months? Quarter of a year? And you got one of our things back and fucked up getting the other. Hell, a band of wildly misfits are better at this than we are. Let’s just call our horses in now before we lose more in the races.”

“Running away isn’t an option this time,” Magnus says. He tries to make it sound reasonable, almost father-like, but the last few words take a sudden razor edge at the end.

“What else do we got going for team _Starblaster?_ Just tell me, cause as far as I can see, a reset is a solid solution to all of our troubles.” Taako slides out of his seat, his head thrown back as he saunters around the kitchen table. Around and around, circling like a preying shark. “Reset, and we don’t have to worry about Barold not being able to walk. Reset, and we get all the pieces of the light back in our hands, and that’s rad—”

“And you get Lup.”

Taako stops. He stares, a wrinkle on his nose as he glares at Julia. She leans into the table, resting her arm on it as the picture of contemplation. “I know I don’t really know you, but if you gave a shit about Barry, then you wouldn’t’ve left for so long.”

“Jules,” Magnus warns as Merle winces and says, “Slow down there—”

Julia’s brow is evenly set, irises stirring like the beginnings of a tornado. “You only care about Lup. So, just say it. You want to reset so that Lup just reappears again.”

Taako grins, all teeth as he hisses through his shocked visage. “Wow it’s almost—” He braces his hands on the table, poison dripping from every syllable. “It’s as if I, uh, give a shit what you think. Actually, let’s set the record straight here. Don’t want anyone getting all up in their asses about this—none of you, and I mean _none of you_ are off my shit list.”

“What?” Magnus exclaims.

“I’ll admit, you guys helped get me out of a shitty situation. Which isn’t even that impressive since you needed the Grim-fucking-Reaper and a drow who uses too much pepper in all her dishes to do all the heavy lifting. I got my soul ripped out of my body trying to find Lup. And what the hell did you fucks do? What the fuck have you been doing for ten years?” He gestures vaguely at Merle and Davenport. “Wine tasting on the scenic coastline?” And Magnus and Julia. “Two-handed reenactment of _I Love Lucy: Greatest Hits Edition?”_

Lucretia makes a small noise as she sits up more, a hand over her aching chest. “It’s not like we don’t care—”

He grin turns into sticky candy. “Lucy, you’re fine. You actually put the work in.”

Lucretia pauses. “Wait. Huh?”

“But the rest of you!” His lip curls in an ugly snarl. “Fuck you. You don’t care. You’ve never cared about either of us. Lup and I—we were always some tool to you. _Oh, Taako you’re the transmutation wizard so you can figure out how to jump planes. Oh, twins we need your bonds to keep the engine running._ _Oh_ this and _oh_ that! Lup gave a shit about you guys. She did everything for you. And the moment she needed you guys, you all fucked off and pretended she never happened. Like she was nothing to you but dust. Stupid, fucking, dust. And now you want me to be thankful that you just happened to remember me? Don’t come at me with that bullshit. You’ve never given a shit about me. You’ve _never_ given a single shit about us.”

No one meets his eyes.

That is, everyone except Julia. She lifts Lucretia’s legs off her lap, taking a deep breath before trying to stand on her one leg. She needs to keep her hand on the table for balance, but nonetheless she manages to wobble to full height. “So let me get this straight. Faerun is filled with millions, if not billions of people. Every day, working people with lives of their own. And you’d let them get sucked away into the Hunger for one person?”

Taako’s ears stay upright as he leans in. “Sign me the fuck up.”

Startled, Julia laughs. It’s cold, ringing hollow in the air.

Magnus releases a sigh, rising from his chair. “Okay, Jules. This isn’t Gansey. You can’t just—”

“No, no, no. Sweetie. This actually is hilarious.” Julia mimics Taako’s venom, managing a brand that is crueler if not more sadistic than his ever was. And she aims it straight at the elf. “I have heard so much shit about you. That you’re incredible. Smart. A little bit of a jerk. But this? This is just insane. You’re horrible.”

Taako shrugs. “Eh, semantics.”

“If you leave tomorrow, I don’t care. You can walk right out of here now, and I’ll probably kiss the ground and thank Istus for ridding you from my life. But if you threaten to give up on this world again, I’ll do more than just rip your soul out of your body.”

He bats her words away, rolling his eye as he folds his arm over his chest. “Yeah, whatever.”

Magnus stands, every bone in his back cracking in the process. Stiffly, he goes to Julia’s side of the table, placing a hand under her elbow as he helps to steady her. “It’s time to calm down, Jules.”

She turns her glare onto him. “Okay, really? He gets a pass for saying all that but you’re mad at me?”

Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Gods almighty— _Julia.”_

Taako flexes his fingers, feeling the bones of his knuckles slide against each other. He does it a few times, waiting for his body to remember to block the sensation out. Before that happens, he hears Merle cough. “Taako.” The dwarf looks exhausted, his partner looking like a cocktail mixture of fury towards himself and everything he just witnessed. Taako trembles with the urge to say anything, but it’s the words from Merle’s lips that barb his core, sending echoes through his skeleton that reminds him of how hollow he is inside: “You know Lup wouldn’t like any of this.”

His face burns. “I don’t care…” He doesn’t let himself finish the thought. He grabs the edges of his wizard hat, jamming it closer to his scalp.

“Don’t storm out,” Lucretia says, but he’s already through the door, back into the abyss of the hallway. He passes Lup’s old room. He kicks the room, the hinges shaking in the frame, When the knob turns and Stevie peers out, she catches his the edges of his heeled boots as they flee to the stairs leading above deck.

* * *

The last he was here, his hair was blue.

His hair is still blue.

The bright neon shouts back at him from his reflection in the storefront window, more obnoxious than the battlewagon idling on the street. For a second, Taako forgets his stealth. He leans in closer to his shallow reflection, studying his features, of what little he can see of his face under the eyepatch emblazoned with an embroidered mongoose. He has a new piercing on his nose, just a small stud on the corner of his nostril. Under the waning sunlight, it glitters. He doesn’t hate it, but he still rushes to take it out, flicking the gold-colored piece into the depths of the alleyway. Crinkling his nose, he tests the new feeling of emptiness.

Now his ears twitch, and the crease between his brows itches. The echoes of Lup complaining fill his head, her sing-song voice going on and on about the strange hiccups of a flesh form. He’d always snap at her to shut up, that it wasn’t his fault she decided to wed her boyfriend by becoming undead beings together. Now he gets it.

Taako glances over his shoulder, making sure that the halfing militia woman is still too absorbed with the goings of her stone of farspeech to pay him any real attention. She swears and mutters a name he can’t be bothered to remember. The coast being clear, he casts a quick unlocking spell on the door and slips inside.

Leon’s shop is in disarray. The assortment of magical items he remembers is all but destroyed, the shattered glass and broken wood littering the floor the only proof left of his trade. He spots a few artificer tools scattered throughout the mess, a few droplets of blood to accentuate the horror. Taako kicks aside a fanned book, revealing a few shards of orange glass. In this reflection, his hair looks black.

He goes up stairs.

The mess that is downstairs stretches here as well, albeit in a different manner. Downstairs is drenched in the markings of someone looking to cause panic, to intimidate and lord above others. In this little conclave of couches and rooms, the thrown aside cushions and scattered belongings hint at something more methodical. A search, rather than a storm. A violin sits in two halves on the floor. When he steps on it, it makes a sad sound. He squats. Under the shards of rosewood is a collection of papers, their backs covered in dusts of footprints and little sprinklings of blood. He picks up one of the discarded sheets. Music sheets, the inks smeared across the page. He looks up and sees the fragments of a memory—of clutching his map at the break of dawn, trying to creep away with no one noticing. Being caught and sticking to the first lie that popped into his head. Being amazed years later when realizing that Ren stuck to it.

He stands, heading for the guest room.

The guest room is as bland as he remembers, bearing no sign of Ren’s stuff. What he does see is a red robe hanging off the side of the bed frame. “Huh.” He picks it up, feeling the denim scratch the pads of his fingers. He gawks.

From the depths of his gut, a strangled laugh floats up his throat. There’s a ruined science textbook on the ground, but the distasteful robe tells him all he’s needed to know. He stuffs the robe under his arm, already hating the fact that he’s keeping it.

He finds Ren’s room a few minutes later. It’s spliced in half, a bed shoved onto either side of the cramp space. It reminds Taako of the dorms back at the institute with how drastically different the two sides of the space are decorated. One is decked with a few fantasy wrestling posters, portraits of famous bards, and plenty of pictures of ducks torn directly from books. The other a little bit more sparse, letters and recipes tacked to the wall like crawling vines. When he leans in closer, he can see the annotations, marking adjustments of spices and techniques. He looks for anything more personal, like a painting or even a poem, but there’s no sign. That is, except for a receipt to a restaurant in Goldcliff dated three years ago. Her loopy, Faerun numbers mingle with the hodgepodge numerical system of his homeworld, but he can find the uncertain digits she got him to practice. Simple addition, a few silver pieces added onto the bill.

Taako wants to find it funny, but doesn’t. They traveled together for a year, and a restaurant receipt is the only proof of existence he left behind? Or did she have more that she trashed the moment he left?

Does it even matter? What is he even looking for?

He doesn’t really know. When he stormed off the _Starblaster,_ all he knew was that he wanted to get as far away from everyone else as possible and never return. And, right as he entered through the city gates, he realized he still knew where the apartment was. He’s been on autopilot since, just taking the blows as they come. He flexes his fingers. What does he even hope to find, going through her stuff?

He shifts Barry’s disgusting robe under his other arm. From the depths of his bag of holding, he pulls out Istus’s knitting needles. He unclasps his purple cloak, wrapping it around the needles until he can no longer make out their shape under the folds of the fabric. He leaves the bundle on the bed. After a moment’s thought, he fetches one of the cleaner sheets of paper off the floor of the living room. He writes something down, and folds it up. Using a tack from the wall, he pins it to the fabric.

He checks for any signs of a second home base. A few hours later, when he creeps back onto the _Starblaster,_ his face burns as he opens the door to Lucretia’s room. Of course, even injured she’s awake. Of course she sets aside her journal, looking at him with attentive eyes as he tells he that he couldn’t find anything. “I didn’t know you went there,” she says. Then: “I didn’t know you were going to come back.”

He scowls. “I, uh, didn’t pack a bag. Besides, I don’t wander. Taako likes knowing where he’s going first.” He leaves at that. He finds the door to Davenport and Merle’s room closed. Same for Magnus and Lup. But Magnus himself is in the common room again, dozing on the couch.

Taako leaves him there, sequestering into the quiet of his own room, head spinning with the numbers of this world.

* * *

When Barry wakes up, he knows something went wrong. His mouth still tastes of blood, his face pressed against the wood of a rocky ride, his arms screaming in pain from being bound to his back for so long. He makes a face, blurry vision fighting for clarity that will never come, as a groan travels up his throat.

“You’re awake.” Leon the Artificer is across from him, exhaustion clear on his bruising face. His beard curls around him like a blanket, his movements stiff and painful as he cups the side of his mouth and calls out. “Johann! He’s not dead.”

“Not dead.” The words make his tongue feel heavy. Barry tries to roll over, but when he finds that he can’t, he tries to infer as much of his situation as he can from where he is. He’s in the wooden back bed of a battlewagon, probably one that was used for illegal racing. Trees falling victim to the changing seasons pass him in a scenic blur. He finds Johann at the edge of the bed, more exhausted than him and Leon combined. He clutches the edge of the window leading into the driver’s seat, singing a soft song with a hoarse voice. The back of a woman’s head is all Barry can make out of the driver.

Barry needs to know what happened to Merle, how they all got out of the Hammerhead base in one piece. But if he only gets one question, he needs it to be something he absolutely needs to know: “Where are we going?”

Leon helps him sit up, saying, “Look for yourself.”

And Barry does, a swear tumbling out a second later. A blue crystal lake stretches before him, the autumn sound glittering on the glassy surface. It reaches as far as the eye could see, oceanic save for the slim line of orange trees on the distant shore. But there, at the middle of the Stillwater Sea, is a complex made of multiple domes: the Miller Labs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the first of the interlude chapters! Much like last time, the next however many chapters are going to be a lot less plot focused and more concerned with character drama and a few subplots. I've finally started taking a crack at Taako and all his frustrations with the given situation, and there's definitely going to be more of that. 
> 
> If you want to hear some various thoughts on what I think of some things in this chapter, like Julia and Taako's argument, then please check out my extended notes for this chapter: http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/179469035296/northern-migration-chapter-23-notes-preview
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for being so patient. I got a lot of comments last chapter telling me that I shouldn't be worried about not posting as often as I could, and that really means a lot to me. That being said, I like posting shorter chapters for a variety of reasons that include long word counts stressing me out. The Wonderland arc was an exception since if I didn't make the chapters big, there would have been twenty of them. Basically, I like the shorter chapters lengths (especially for interludes like these) and I hope you guys like them as well. Thanks for being so cool! xoxoxoxoxoxo


	24. In Which Barry Faces His Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry Bluejeans arrive at the Miller Labs. Old friends show themselves again. The past never leaves us behind.

Not every detail of that incredible century made it into Lucretia’s journals. The fault is not her own. Lucretia did everything in her power to record every aspect of their journey, if not for future prosperity then for the sake of her own humanity. To know everything detail is to know every mistake, to trace a line back to the origins so that it may never repeat again. Some circles would call record keeping like that obsessive. To seven people not from this plane, it’s the definition of sanity.

But there are some things Lucretia never reported, because she was never informed. Some thoughts were best kept to the one who made them, held close in fear of what the consequences would be. Boxed away until you could deal with them. Stack those boxes high until it’s shaped like _something_ you can’t quite explain. It’s up to the person who packaged them to choose when those boxes are cut open and examined.

It was late one night, alone in the quiet of his lab, when Barry opened one particular box. It was the start of the cycle, a cup of coffee held between his hands as he watched a moth buzz around the electric light hanging overhead. Somehow, this moth got recorded into the bond engine (another thing about bonds he didn't understand), and it always reappeared at the start of every cycle. It haunted his lab with all its fury, dancing between his shelves of bottled chemicals and discarded prototypes with a youthful vigor that almost made him jealous. Barry gave up killing it fifty years ago, and now he watched it buzz around the bright glass, knocking into it with an audible thud before falling back and trying again. It was mesmerizing.

On another part of the ship, Davenport was arguing with Merle about when to parley with John. Lucretia died last cycle, so she might have been interrogating Magnus on everything she missed in her two month absence. Maybe he was already asleep and she was still awake, writing to the soft glow of Fisher’s tank. Barry didn’t know; he could only make educated guesses. What he did know was that Lup was in Taako’s room, spending the night so that he could unwind from last cycle.

Last cycle was… it was rough, to say the least.

The civilization they found was on the more advance side, but that did nothing to improve their relationship with the people there. Merle died early on due to parley, leaving them without a healer in a game of guerilla warfare with a government that refused to hand the light over. Davenport was imprisoned for a crime no one in the government would explain. His body was found a few months later, floating down the wash. Lucretia thought that she could make a bargain at an official dinner, only to die from a heavy dose of poison. She was in a room full of the richest people, and not one stopped to help as she writhed, her throat swelling up until she suffocated. She died slowly, and no one gave a damn.

Lup was the last to die. In one last ditch attempt to obtain the Light, she convinced Barry and Taako to help her break into the high security facility. She and Taako went in. Barry waited in the nearby woods with a car they’d stolen. He watched from the tinted windows as the twins blasted through the facility walls, alarms blaring as they threw bolts of magic over their shoulders. Taako had the Light in his hands. It was only one mad dash across the field left. Then they could climb the fence, be in the car, and make their getaway. Barry fumbled with the keys, turning the engine on when he heard the familiar boom of a gunshot. Then another. And another. Boom. Boom. Boom.

He all but scrambled out of the car, wand in hand in time to see what had happened. Taako’s hands was the only thing keeping Lup upright, every limb limp as blood leaked from six separate bullet wounds. Her eyes showed no recognition, rolling with every jostle to the head. They were at the foot of the fence, her last second leap in front of Taako the only protection he had against the bullets.

Taako froze. Gasping. Hyperventilating.

Lup’s body slumped against him.

It took all his strength to make his trembling hands lower her onto the ground, gentle like fragile glass. Bit by bit, he came back to himself. He took her wand and pocketed it somewhere safe. Brushing the hair from her face, his eyes read of something broken. He slipped the wedding ring off her finger. Not everything regenerated at the start of every year.

Barry boxed away the sight of his wife dead, forcing himself to focus instead on the problem at hand. “Taako, move!”

And he cast _reanimate dead._

Lup’s body seized. Eyes rolled back as she sat up, magic puppeteering her limbs into the facsimile of life. Mute, Taako watches as her corpse rose to her feet and dashed to the line of armed guards coming for them. The screams that rose felt like punches in Barry’s gut.

Taako didn’t look back. He blasted a hole in the fence and, with the Light in hand, ran.

Lup’s wand and wedding ring sat at Barry’s bedside for months, waiting. He prayed every night that nothing would upset the bond engine, that this wouldn’t be the year everything stayed.

At least they got the Light. At least they saved this stupid plane.

The moth banged into the light again. Barry blinked, swearing as spots filled his vision. He took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes as he cursed himself for spacing out. His coffee had gone cold. With a sigh, he set aside the mug and pulled from a haphazard stack a large notebook. In it was all the various ideas he and Lup had for defeating the Hunger. Proposed weapons that could dispel the columns of black despair. Radars that could detect where the Light was going to land before it even appeared. He flipped through the pages, scanning through each one before landing on a spread filled with notes he made for himself.

Necromancy. Bonds.

He made waves in Tusolia with a paper he wrote that proposed that bonds were more than a religious concept. Necromancy could be better understood as the manipulation of bonds. It was what led to Davenport reconnecting with him at the institute, inviting him to join the _Starblaster_ project. Their scant knowledge of bonds allowed them to transcend the barriers between planes. Bonds were what kept them in this endless struggle against the Hunger.

Even if he had no evidence to support it, he refused to believe bonds weren’t the secret to defeating the Hunger. There was so much to them he still didn’t understand and there weren’t many things left in the universe he didn’t know. The way bonds slipped between his mental fingers was mystifying. He imagined if he just studied enough, the answer would fall onto his lap.

But then, what if he knew all there was to know about bonds and the omiverse, and still no answer would be in sight? What if the Hunger and bonds were two separate concepts, never to overlap?

But that’s the rhetorical. He knew he was never going to understand bonds the way he needed to. There was comfort in that. None of them were meant to be put on this path. They weren’t meant to be heroes. They weren’t made for this. They couldn’t be blamed for not having the solution.

Barry closed his eyes. He imagined a group of people like them, but different. Better spell casters. Smarter scientists. Stronger soldiers. Seven different faces being thrown into this same mess. If he could hand them everything there is to know about bonds—how to manipulate them, how to seep their power and turn it into something good—he would. He wouldn’t think twice. Because somewhere in all the planes are the people who are truly meant to be the heroes.

In no planar system was Barry Bluejeans meant to save the day. He knew so little, but at least he knew that. Someday, he was going to meet the real heroes. And when that happened, he was going to help them.

Years later, long after he became a lich, Lucretia saw the design of the bell. “Of course, it’s necromantic,” she said. “But what does it do?”

He shrugged her away. He did it many times until she got the message, writing down something about apparent personal grief before moving on to the next person. He didn’t know how to tell her about that little fantasy, of someone out there being smarter than them, whose entire destiny is to free them from this fate. How he imagined that faceless person using the bell to do so. So he boxed it away, like everything else that had happened to him. He boxed away that hope so that when it failed him, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

When they landed in Faerun, he imbued the bell with the light. Then he picked up an old magazine, rolled it up, and squashed the moth for the last time.

* * *

Johann’s voice is in tatters, shreds of vocals that leave him grimacing at the end of each note. Bruised, tarnished by dried blood, he leans into the side of the boat, eyes blinking with exhaustion as he tries to keep his _dominate person_ on beat. Barry feels bad for her— the woman Johann has spelled shows no signs of wear, sitting with back straight as she dips the oars in and out of the crystal water.

And the water.

The Still-water Sea is beautiful in the autumn light, the water a lush blue, the sparkles of light a richer hue of gold. Barry drags his newly unbound hands over the surface, watching the ripples dance over the aquamarine glass. He leans his head on his arm, squinting as he and the two other men watch the domes of the Miller Lab grow ever closer. He feels the weight in his throat, balled close to his uvula until he thinks he’s going to throw up. The lake is gorgeous, the largest in Faerun, yet he wants more than anything to seal his eyes shut and turn away. He can only think of the collection of smooth stone, the pictures of other planes shining back at him. Maureen listening as he draws an equation out for each.

“I can’t wait to shower all this shit off of me,” Leon says despite being the healthiest out of the three (which wasn’t saying much since he also looked like hell). He stills leans against the side of the boat they found at the pier, the one Barry knows the bugbears use to run errands. “A nice long bath before I sleep for days.”

Johann can’t stop his song to reply. Barry’s gut churns at the very thought of having to step inside that dome once more. With no witty response thrown back at him, Leon crosses his arms over his chest and huffs.

The sun shines a holographic rainbow off the hexagonal plates that make up the Miller Labs, bound together by steel to make a cluster of domes. In an impressive display of technology, they hover twenty feet over the water, but once their boat draws close to the base, a panel slides up and a staircase unfolds. Johann changes the pitch of his song and the woman stops the boat before the first step.

“Geez.” Leon stands with a stretch. “That’s not wheelchair accessible.”

“We don’t have a wheelchair,” Barry says.

“Figure of speech.” He points a finger downwards. “Stay here. Don’t do anything funny.”

Barry’s cheeks burn. “You could throw me overboard right now and I’d thank you.”

Leon makes a face that’s almost sympathetic. “Yikes. Do you need to talk to someone?”

Johann jabs his elbow into Leon’s back, singing louder to make his point.

The gnome grumbles and, with the boat rocking under his movements, manages to climb onto the first stair. “Fine. Fine. I’m hurrying.” His little legs carry him up as quickly as they can, and soon he’s disappearing through the entry way and into the cool darkness of the inner dome.

The few minutes he’s away is enough to make Barry’s anxiety flare back up, threatening to rise like bile or else boil a hole through his gut. He dips a few fingers into the water, letting their frigid temperature send a calming prayer through his limbs. Finally, someone else comes down the stairs, but it’s not Leon. Seven feet tall, covered head to paw in lush brown fur—the bugbear coming down the steps is stuffed in a fine black suit, looking refined and proud with a colorful triangle in the front breast pocket. Barry squints as he gets closer, recognizing the calm face.

And, sure enough, Daniel Butler recognizes him.

“My god! Doctor Bluejeans! I haven’t seen you for too long!” He hurries down the last few steps, squatting to get his face right in Barry’s. His yellow eyes are wide, full of unrelenting concern as he studies his broken nose and coating of dried blood. “You look like you’ve been through the grinder and worse!”

Johann falters in his song before quickly resuming, glaring at Barry.

Barry sends him a shrug before giving Daniel a strained smile. “Guess you can say that. It’s good to see you, Daniel.”

“Gosh, when that nice gnome said I needed to come down and help someone up, I’d never have thought it was you! Jamie and the rest are going to be so ecstatic to see you again—things just haven’t been the same since you left.” He laughs. “But look at me, rambling away like we’ve got all the time in the world. I’m going to guess that the lot of you need a healer pronto. Let’s get you up now.” In one smooth motion, Daniel laces his bulky arms under Barry’s legs and around his waist and lifts him up. Despite the proper clothes, Barry can feel the soft tufts of fur against his chest, and his body warms with the sensation of peace and comfort. He almost doesn’t notice when he’s carried inside the dome, bringing brought back into the place that marks a bullet point on an already long list of regrets.

Depending on where in the lab you are, the rooms are decorated differently. The places meant for suave sponsorship parties and guests are elegantly designed, taking advantage of the curvature of the walls and the high ceilings for clever displays of art. But the chambers where the Millers worked, where Barry used to sort through equations like he used to, are metal and sleek, professional to a fault.

Daniel carries Barry through a couple of airlocks, taking him from the showcases of wealth to the industrial hallways. Dread clouds Barry’s head until he can’t keep where he is straight. That is, until the harsh lights of the hallway give to the softer brightness of a clean clinic. Barry turns his face from Daniel’s chest, taking in the rows of medical cots and the metal racks of curtains set up between them. Barry expects to see one of the bugbears at the cabinets at the far end, sorting through healing potions and pedestrian medical supplies. Instead, Barry sees a robot.

At first, he half thinks he’s going nuts. Beyond a few failed prototypes from Lucas, Barry has never seen a single robot on Faerun. Even with the efforts he’s put forth with the Miller family, the technological advancements are still far too behind for a smoothly operating, functional body to be feasible. Yet, one hovers not fifty feet away, made of an eclectic collection of parts Barry can only describe as being _scrumbled_ together _._ He counts more vents and ports then it realistically needs, sees the glint of its bronze arm in the light as it turns to see the bugbear lower him onto the nearest bed.

“Oh dear! Is someone in need of assistance?” The robot says in a feminine voice. With every word, her core lights on and off.

“Noelle, please help our dear friend Doctor Bluejeans,” Daniel says, adjusting Barry’s legs to make sure he’s as comfortable as possible. “He’s in such a dreadful state and requires medical assistance as soon as possible.”

“Right on it,” Noelle says, floating over to his bedside. Her face is a green screen that lights up to show two neon dots for eyes and a curved line for a smile. Up close, Barry can see that the robotic core is a piece of blue crystal locked in place by a clear tube, multiple wires connecting it to the various parts of its artificial body.

He feels a scan slide over his skin, checking for all injuries, as Leon limps in. “Mr. Butler,” he says, hardly perturbed by the robot in his proximity. “We have someone we’re going to need to, uh, lock up for a bit. You have any cells or, like, windowless rooms we can use?”

Barry can’t help his snort. “One prisoner isn’t enough for you?”

Leon makes a face as Daniel sweeps over to him, ushering him out with a pleasant “I’m sure we can find some suitable living arrangements…”

The airlock seals behind them, leaving Barry and Noelle alone.

For while, Barry lets her work in peace. Soft music comes through the horns mounted in the upper edge of the room, giving his brain something to focus on beyond his creeping suspicion. She injects a few potions straight into his bloodstream, making him feel better instantaneously. It’s when she’s finished bandaging his broken nose and starting to stitch together the deeper lesions that he finds his courage. “So, uh, you kinda weren’t here a year ago.”

Noelle laughs. “No. Lucas didn’t get around to inventing little old me until a few months back.”

He feels the heat rush to his cheeks. “Do you, um—this is going to be really invasive.”

“Oh, no, no. Ask away! I ain’t nothing more than an open book.”

Barry leans forward, tapping his finger on the clear shielding around her core. “Do you know how you work?”

A part of him was hoping she would get perturb, maybe quietly explain to him about how she used to be dead until her soul was bound to the crystal in her chest. Instead, her lilted voice springs into light laughter. “Do I look like some kinda science person to ya? I’m just the medic fixin’ up everyone else’s mistakes.”

Barry pales. “What—”

The airlock slides open with a hiss. “I thought I told you guys to notify me right away if you’re going to be ahead of schedule,” a painfully nasal-- horribly familiar--voice says. “It takes a lot of work putting together an effective containment chamber for the relics, and I need to be prepared to get these things locked away as soon as possible, for everyone’s…”

Another robot whirls down the rows of beds, this one far more sleek than Noelle—a slim body of wood and steel, floating a few feet in the air with thin robotic hands at its sides. No crystal glows in its chest, but while Noelle’s face shows a digital yet rudimentary smile, this one is a sleek crystal that broadcasts the image of Lucas Miller. He sits in what Barry can tell is the main lab, surrounded by a mess of parts and papers, his attention half on the clipboard in his hands until he looks up at the screen on his end. Pale cheeks burn a bright red, thin brows dipping into a sour scowl. “Barry Bluejeans. What the hell are you doing here?”

Barry swallows, aware for the first time in a while that he can’t move on his own. “Lucas.”

* * *

The worst part of any mission isn’t getting the relic, it’s getting the relic to Lucas’s lab. It’s long hours wasting away on the less popular roads, trying to keep the ever-present thrall from claiming an unsuspecting victim. It’s wearing the headphones with no rest, letting the music blend into the background to keep yourself from being the next victim. It’s having shifts for sleeping, one person slumbering at a time, and staying awake to make sure the other doesn’t try betraying everyone in the night. It's all checks and procedures, pomp and circumstance that add up to a precarious balance. Keep everything even and no one will get hurt.

By the time Avi, Killian, and Ren make it to the Still-water Sea, they’re dragging their feet. Eyes heavy with exhaustion, they keep the Animus Bell in a sack attached to Avi’s hip. Even with the pair of headphones over his ears, he can still feel a tickling in the back of his mind, conjuring up all the ways he can use an item like this. He can age himself back down to his twenties, give Ren back her sight, bring back Killian’s family. All he has to do is—

“Aren’t there usually two?” Killian stands on the little dock, frowning down at the single boat bobbing in the gorgeous waters.

Avi stares for a moment, blinking back to the present. He clears his throat. “I mean. Yeah. Sure. One of the bugbears might be out.”

Ren tilts her head to the side. The bandage around her eyes is old, begging to be replaced with a fresher cloth. Avi thinks he can’t tell what she’s thinking anymore without the expressive spark in her eyes, but then her ears press back and down. “You doing okay?”

He bobs his head, then remembers he needs to be verbal. “Yeah. Definitely.” A voice in the back of his head thinks he should stay quiet about how tempted he is to at least restore their lost parts before turning the relic over, but that’s what the thrall wants him to think. Avi unties the string keeping the bag on his belt, handing it over to Ren. “You take over. It’s starting to get to me.”

She hesitates, then takes it. Her ears go nuts, whirling around her head like buzzing flies. Her mouth twists in frustration. The headphones aren’t fail proof. With them, they can get close enough to the relic without the thrall driving them insane. Holding it puts them in direct contact, and it’s up to their constitutions to stave away the urge to give into the immense power at their fingertips. But at least they get the opportunity to fight back.

Something foul bodes in Avi’s gut when he climbs onto the boat. He helps Killian with the oars, and every joint in his body shouts at him to stop. He needs a healer to patch up the still tender wound in his shoulder, but when he glances over the side of the boat and sees his reflection—an older man with gray in his beard and lines around his face—he can’t help but to wonder if it’s now because he’s old. He does the math in his head. Wonderland squeezed twenty-five years from his life. He has to be in his early fifties now, already over the hill. That’s a lot of time.

At least he can still see.

At least he hasn’t forgotten anyone.

They sail to the domes and drag their aching forms up the retracting staircase. The moment they’re inside, Avi smashes the button to seal the airlock and hits another on the control panel. He types in a few runes, and after a moment of processing, green letters tell him that Johann’s music is still running over the speakers of the lab, ensuring everyone inside has a fighting chance against the effects of all the relics locked inside. He yanks his headphones off, sighing as the pressure on his head deflates. “Finally,” he says.

“Let’s get this locked up and take a fucking nap,” Killian says. She scans the foyer, taking in the pleasant wallpaper on the curved walls and the potted plants decorating the seating area—a lobby for any potential guest. It’s simple, save for the glass chandelier hanging over their heads, each piece turning into prisms when beams from the skylight strike it just right. “Huh.”

Ren tilts her good ear towards the room, her hand finding the handle of her umbrella. “Are we the only ones in here?” she asks.

“Yeah…” Avi has to step aside for Killian, giving her space to jam her finger into the runes on the control panel. The stone of farspeech built into it comes to life, and she says, “Hey, Lucas. It’s us. Did you get our messages? We have another relic.”

Static.

“Don’t tell me something went wrong,” Avi says.

Ren jolts, turning to where she thinks the hallway is. “Someone’s coming.”

A second later, they hear the rush of footsteps, the uneven gait of someone trying to hurry while limping. There’s three different hallways converging on the foyer, but it’s from the rightmost one that Johann appears. He’s covered head to toe in dried blood, exhaustion clear on his face as he all but stumbles into the room. He’s painful to look at, and for a second he seems startled by the appearance of his friends—all of them as battered at he looks. Then he tries for a grin. “Hey,” he croaks.

Avi’s heart drops.

“What are you doing here?” Killian asks, rushing up to his side. She places a hand on his shoulder, and the weight is his signal to let her keep him upright. “You should be back in Goldcliff with—”

“We lost the apartment.” Johann coughs, trying to make his voice clearer. “It was one of the gangs—Hammerheads. Heard we had the Grand Relics and wanted to take us out. We got out, but I didn’t know what we should do, so we ran here.”

Avi can feel the chill in his blood, icing his veins. He stares down at the ground, the faces of the Hammerheads swarming his vision. “Oh shit.” He goes up to Johann, starting to put a hand on his shoulder before thinking better of it. “God, Johann—that’s my fault. I should’ve been more—”

“What. The. Fuck.” Johann leans forward, stumbling a bit before Killian helps catch him. He points a finger at Avi, mouth agape. “What the fuck—Avi? You’re Avi, right?”

His hand goes to his face, and Avi can feel a flush of shame creeping under his skin. “Yeah,” he says, and he can hear how much older he sounds. He can’t help but to think of his old man, growing up in Brandybuck with everyone telling him he looks like his dad stolen from childhood. Now he is his dad, and he’s been flung in there, and he’s now down twenty-five years of life.

Killian shakes Johann’s shoulder. “Is Leon okay?”

Johann comes back to himself. “Better than me.”

“And Hallwinter?” Avi adds quickly.

Johann makes a face. “Yeah, got him out too. But like, we got a big problem. Apparently even without his wand he can do this, like, magic thing. He turns into, like, smoke and talk to the other Red Robes.”

“That’s nuts,” Ren says, coming up from behind.

Johann startles again, this time at the bandage around her face. “H-he, uh, he said—when we were getting kidnapped, he said he wanted to get us some help and he did that magic thing. I don’t know. All I know is that one of them actually showed up.”

“Where’s he now?” Avi asks.

“The Red Robe?”

“Sildar!”

“Uh, I think he’s in the med bay.”

Avi starts in that direction, ignoring Killian’s short curse before her louder steps follow after him. “What do you mean about that other Red Robe?”

“I mean—” Avi hears Johann stumble. “He was like a dwarf. I don’t know. He showed up but we didn’t keep him or anything.”

“Wasn’t there a dwarf on those files Bane showed us?” Ren chimes.

“Highchurch.” Killian huffs. “We’re going to have to tell Bane—”

“Aren’t you going to say something to me?” At the end of the hallway is the airlock to the clinic, standing open with Daniel and Leon crowding around it, the worried looks on their faces no doubt from the way Lucas is shouting. Avi speeds up his pace, wincing at stab of pain in his shoulder, before wedging between the two.

Lucas is still doing that weird robot thing, sticking in his lab all day and letting a robot carry a projected image of him around. It makes no gesture to accompany the shaking fury in his tone, but with the way Sildar sits in a cowed silence, he doesn’t need it. Even Noelle the robot seems hesitant to intervene, hovering off to the side with her screen displaying a simple frown. He feels Killian and the rest joining up at his side, Johann leaning his bodyweight into his side as Lucas continues: “Anything? Nothing to say after you ruined my life?”

Sildar bows his head, hands shaking as they tighten into fists.

A moment longer than necessary passes before Lucas can muster up his voice again, but even then it breaks on the first word. “We put so much faith in you. You said you knew everything about the planes—this was her life’s work! You had to know what was going to happen. You had to know.”

Sildar shakes his head. “I didn’t—”

“You said you were an expert!” Lucas groans. “You ran away! You killed her and ran away!”

“I didn’t mean too!” His voice sounds like shattering glass. With it, whatever face Sildar has been wearing breaks apart. The cool that has carried him through being locked away in the bedroom, the slight off-ness of his demure silence—gone. Now he’s an old man. The wrinkles on his face more pronounce, reminiscent of the cracks on an aging sculpture. He trembles because he’s scared. Sildar Hallwinter, known Red Robe, is terrified. “I swear, Lucas. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shit!” Ren stumbles, and Avi has to jump away as the tip of her umbrella rises. An invisible force tugs on it, trying to dislodge the hooked handle from where Ren had tied it to her belt. She jams both hands on it, muttering pleads as she tries to force it back down.

Sildar looks away from Lucas, pale-faced as he stares at Ren.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lucas snaps. “You said you were an expert. You said it was safe.”

Blinking, Sildar seems caught in a stupor. He switches his attention between Lucas and Ren—Killian is trying to keep the umbra staff down while Leon pokes his finger into its side and tries to diagnose the problem. “I… It’s my life. It never hurt me.” He clears his throat. “Excuse me?” Avi feels himself stepping back. He doesn’t know this Sildar, this one with red welts burning a circle around his wrists. “That umbra staff. Please. Let me just see it.”

The robot holding Lucas’s screen turns, noticing the crowd of spectators for the first time. His projected image looks surprised, pale face splotchy from tears. “Oh. It’s you guys.” He clears his throat, bringing his courage back to the surface. “Don’t listen to him. I don’t know what you guys have been doing having Barry-fucking-Blujeans around, but he’s not welcomed here.”

“Suck it up, Miller,” Killian says, marching past the threshold. She towers high above everyone else, the bright electric lights mounted on the ceiling casting her large shadow over the rows of bed. She tops at the edge of Sildar’s bed, arms crossed. “Alright, spill.”

He scrunches his brows. “What?”

“You’ve been in contact with your friends, probably telling them everything that we’ve been doing. That’s how you guys knew about the Oculus. And I’m going to bet that you got them to send word to the Hammerheads.”

“What? No.” Barry shakes his head. “You got this all wrong—I mean, not completely wrong. Maybe three-quarters way wrong?”

“Don’t deflect,” Killian snaps.

“I told them about the Oculus. But I didn’t know anything about the Hammerheads.”

She scoffs.

“I’m being serious. Do you know what it’s like being locked up in a room all day, stuck in a bed while your friends are trying to make things right? I talked to them, but wouldn’t you have done the same if you were me? Don’t I deserve that?”

“Killian.” Avi storms over to her, sure to give her a look that tells her exactly how he’s feeling. “I literally said earlier that the Hammerheads were my fault. Don’t take it out on him. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Didn’t you listen to anything I said?” Lucas shouts. “He killed my mom!”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Avi?” Killian says. “This is a Red Robe we’re talking about. He created the Grand Relics. We’ve seen firsthand the destruction these things can do. And you’re going to forget all that, for what? Someone to eat breakfast with?”

“Killian, I—god.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not trying to replace Brian.”

Killian huffs. “Who’s that?”

Avi swallows, feeling the tension amass in the air. He can still see the image of Killian standing before the neon-colored Wheel of Sacrifice, the lights illuminating her green skin as she chose to give her memories of him away. She doesn’t remember his kind face, the way his shrill laughter filled the apartment. She can’t even recall how it was her bolt that killed him. Nothing Avi does will ever make her remember, and that knowledge makes his tongue heavy in his mouth.

“We’re not saying he isn’t a bad person.” Ren’s steady steps fill the infirmary, matching the beat of the calm music filtering through the background. She holds her umbrella out before her, as if to let the tip lead her to where she wants to go. Avi doesn’t predict how she stands at his side, letting the message to Killian ring clear. “But he’s still a person. Let’s treat him like one.”

Killian throws her head back and groans. “Seriously?”

On the other side of the screen, Lucas looks shocked. “Ren? What happened to you?”

“The Animus Bell.” All this while, Sildar has been silent, forgotten despite being the subject of their debate. Now they look at him again, seeing his eyes wide in a way completely different from before. When arguing with Lucas, he’d been strained, pulled at all ends by the weight of all he’s stone. Now he’s like a corpse, ashy-faced and wide-eyed, frozen as he stares at Avi and Ren. His lips make the shadows of words for a moment. His voice comes back to him. “I did this to you. To both of you.”

Avi releases a long breath. He doesn’t even know if he should say anything. Mostly, he wants a drink.

Ren is the one to move. She gets to the edge of his bed, blind to how he flinches at her movement. When she sits down, she holds her umbra staff with both hands clutching the canvas. “I have a friend. He wasn’t that great of a guy. At least, I think he didn’t think he was. He was running from something. Because he did something horrible, and I don’t think he knows how to cope with that.” She shrugs, covered eyes turned towards nothing. “At least, that’s what I think. Bastard was always hard to read.”

Sildar doesn’t say anything.

Lucas does. “Ren, you’re. Um. You’re, um, being really nice—”

She rolls her neck like it’s her eyes. “Shut it, Miller.”

He does.

“What I’m trying to say is that, if you’re a bad person, then so is Taako.” Sildar stops breathing, holding it all in as the rest of her speech slides over him. “I don’t think anyone can do what you guys did without good reason. So, just say it. What happened?”

Sildar bows his head, shaking once more. “Taako’s okay?”

Her grip on the umbrella tightens. “He was stuck in Wonderland, soul ripped from his body because of the bell. I know that it’s possible for the soul to take control of their body again, but we had to leave before we could find out.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “And you guys got the bell?”

“Sildar. Please. You need to tell me what happened. Why’d you do it?”

A breath, in and out. For a second, Avi is sure that he’s going to shake his head and refuse. But, like always, Sildar surprises him.

“It was the lesser of two evils,” he says. “Make the relics and let the world deal with their powers, or let all of existence end. I think I’ve paid for that choice every day since. And that doesn’t even matter now. The world’s still going to end.”

“Lucretia called it something,” Ren says.

“The Hunger. We call it the Hunger.” When Sildar looks at her, the tears threatening the rim of eyes have fallen in silent stream, dripping from his chin and wetting his lap. “Please. Please promise me. You’ll destroy the bell. Please, do that for me.”

She places a hand over his, quelling his shaking first under her palm. “I promise.”

“No, please listen. This one was mine. I made the bell. Everything—you, Avi, goddamn Taako—everything that’s happened to you. All of it is my fault. Just destroy it. Take it and destroy it before it can ruin anything more.”

“Sildar, I swear,” Ren hushes. “I will make sure this thing gets destroyed.”

He shakes his head. “No one calls me that anymore. Just stick to Barry.”

“Okay, Barry. You can trust me.” She tips her chin towards her lap, her free hand smoothing up and down her umbrella. She takes her hand from him, if only so that she can hold it out. “Here. You just wanted to hold it, right?”

For the first time, Avi sees happiness break on Barry’s face.

“Ren, what the fuck?” Killian says. “Don’t.”

Barry hesitates, and Avi thanks the heavens for that. He doesn't understand this new side of Hallwinter, one that likes to be called Barry Bluejeans, one who sees an apocalypse on the horizon. But he believes it wholeheartedly, and Avi has the creeping suspicion that even now there's a piece they're missing. Something to connect the relics to the end of the world to where Avi is standing here. But he can't say anything, not when he feels the tension in the air become unbearingly palpable.

Arms folded over his chest, he keeps on eye on how Killian simmers with frustration, unsure where he wants to stand in this. He likes how Barry’s eyes already seem brighter, how he twists the gold band on his finger a moment before reaching out his hand. But the umbrella is still a weapon, no matter how well disguised it is. And it’s a weapon Killian found on a skeleton wearing a red robe. “Shit,” Avi mutters.

It’s just loud enough to spur Lucas. “Bluejeans, don’t!”

A shock zaps over Barry, his spine getting straighter as he seems a shaking hand held out just inches about the umbrella. Sweat gathers in his brow, and it’s clear to everyone watching that Barry can’t move. He’s trying, but he can’t.

“Oh my god,” Avi says, hating how these things never involve mechanics or engineering or things he understands. “I need a drink.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Ren says, ear searching for any noise to indication. “Barry, you can take it.”

“Ren, no.” Killian gets her hands on the drow’s shoulders, guiding her to her feet—taking the umbrella with her. “You know that’s not a good idea—” Ren shouts when red sparks come off the purple canvas, and she lets the staff go. Avi can just see it start to hover, threatening to jettison off like it did in Wonderland when Killian flings herself at it. She body slams the umbrella onto the ground, wrestling it until she has the squirming weapon under control.

Leon shuffles to her side. “How is it doing that?” he asks, and his excited chatter becomes background noise to Avi’s ears.

Barry still has his hand out, shock plain on his face as he watches Killian. “Please,” he says, softer than a child’s breath. “Please. I just… I just miss my wife…” Avi hears him, but no one else does. Avi watches everyone fawn over the umbrella for a moment longer, gut churning. He knows this is for the best. He just wishes it didn’t end up taunting Barry in the face.

He just really needs a drink right now.

Making a noise deep within his throat, Barry’s back shakes as all his efforts results in his hand still staying in place. He studies it for a long moment. “How…” He gasps, turning a stern look at Lucas. “What did you get yourself into?”

Lucas makes a face. The screen shows him turning away from the camera, grabbing a notebook from a pile on his messy desk. “I’m not sure what you mean, but it’s definitely worth taking notes for—”

Barry looks like he has more he wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut. The glare that sharpens his eyes is unlike anything Avi has ever seen. He’s not some kind of professor wearing the mask of a Red Robe like a midsummer costume. It’s the reverse, the bleeding paints on a familiar portrait. Barry Bluejeans could do far worse things than glare.

“Ren,” Avi says, voice sounding miles away. “Let’s get that relic handled.” And he leaves.

Together, they go to the usual chamber where Lucas remotely instructs them how to seal up the contamination orb, locking the horrible power away from the world. On the way, Avi finds a parlor meant for entertaining guests. He cracks the liquor cabinet open and steals the first bottle he finds.

* * *

“Chances are, he’s not going to do the smoke thing if someone’s watching him.” Killian keeps her pace slow, Noelle’s healing potions swirling in her blood so that the gash in her calf from the glass shark can finally be healed. They’re all knocked up like that—covered in bandages that will ward off any infection as various healing potions mingle in their blood and do their magic. It makes it easier for Avi to breathe, his broken ribs stitching together, and he can keep pace as Johann leads them down the cold hallway. “We’re going to need shifts—someone watching over him, twenty-four-seven.”

Avi makes a face. “We can ask Lucas if he’ll let some of the bugbears and Noelle help with that.” He unscrews the cap of his stolen bottle, ignoring how Johann scoffs at the sight. “Ease the burden and everything.”

“I thought you’ll be all over it,” Killian says wryly.

He takes a small sip, sighing through the comforting burn. “Yeah. And?”

“I can take a lot of the night shifts,” Ren offers. The cloth around her face has been switched to a clean white bandage, disinfectants working through her empty eye sockets. Lucas had gone on and on about all the things he can do to help her, insisting there’s nothing science can’t do to help. She would call it cute if he did it to anyone but her. “But if we’re going to be watching over him all the time, maybe it’ll be better if we don’t lock him up this time.”

“What?” Avi says.

“What kind of change of heart have you, like, gone through?” Johann says, though whether his dour expression is from her or just his usual mood, no one is certain. He leans his weight on a crutch, still worn from all the hours he’s spent awake.

She huffs. “Just think about it, would ya? It wouldn’t kill us to give the poor guy a wheel chair or something.”

“I…” Johann closes his mouth, lips in an nonexistent line as he muses through a stray thought.

Avi quirks a brow. “If we’re nice, he might help us with the relics.”

Killian snorts. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. When that gets you killed, don’t come crawling back to me. At this point, I’m pretty sure we can only trust each other.”

"Remember what he was saying earlier? About the world ending?" Avi frowns at the floor. "I think we might want to start listening to what he has to say."

"The only thing that's going to end the world are those damn relics," Killian says. "Stop being gullible, captain."

Speeding up, Johann passes them by a few paces, his crutch clicking on the tile floors until he’s at a particular door. They’re in one of the dome meant for lab experiments, the lines of airlocks marked for isolated samples. Johann peers through the window and grimaces. “Okay, so. Um. Avi?”

“I’m right here,” Avi says.

His voice sounds like nails scratching skin, rough and soft. “So, someone rescued us from the Hammerheads. Because they wanted to kidnap us for the relics. And I had to use a little dominate person to get them to, uh, not do that.” Johann looks through the window again, then steps aside. “I think you might know her.”

Avi doubts that until he looks through. He sees the bed Daniel rushed to piece together, taking up the center of a room plainly meant for experiments—a bed on a metal table in one corner, locked cabinets of supplies on the walls. The white lights illuminate the gleam on each individual feather jutting out from an intricate mask. The woman in the bed in is asleep, the braid of her hair curled around her like a hug.

Stepping back from the window, he gives himself a moment to process the sight of Sloane once more. “Shit,” he says.

He thinks about all the things he did. “ _Oh shit.”_

And he takes a long, fervent swing of the bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I was going to give you guys a Barry Bluejeans/BOB chapter, and I delivered. I know this chapter is overall kind of a weird one, but I hope you all liked it. There's some sprinklings of plot points that I'm going to expand on within the next couple of arcs, and I'm very excited about it.
> 
> There's some really cool things happening on my side of things right now. [My oneshot about Julia getting her cottage on the Astral Plane ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441379)is now live if you want to read more of my stuff, and I'm celebrating hitting a milestone on my blog by doing [a fic giveaway!](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/180188966831/hey-folks-this-blog-has-finally-hit-something) I'm actually embedding some hyperlinks for once in my life, so please check them out if you're at all interested in my writing outside of this behemoth of a mess. And, of course, you can always find more notes on this chapter [here.](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/180193766271/northern-migration-chpt-24-notes-preview)
> 
> Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and I want you all to know that I'm thankful for everything you guys have done for me. Reading, commenting, dealing with this story in general-- it all means so much to me, and I'm really glad to have you all here. So thank you and please keep being amazing! xoxoxoxxo


	25. In Which Stevie Makes a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taako changes up his look. Avi does some recruitment. Stevie makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** once again, there is a John and Stevie scene this chapter. As previously discussed, you are free to skip that section if you want. There will be a quick summary of what happened at the bottom.

He’s not vain. Taako knows the kind of vibes he gives off, but he can say with all certainty that he’s not the vain twin. Growing up, that was Lup’s job. She carried around a compact mirror she had stolen from some old lady, insisting she needed it to start fires. But under the light of the moon, half way between consciousness and sleep, Taako would catch her studying her reflection in the palm of her hand, as if she was hoping for a new face every day. Back then, they looked a lot alike. Taako got it.

When they were older and finally different from each other, Lup stayed vain but in much different vein. She didn’t care so much about how she looked like, but rather what other people thought about her. She wanted to be impressive. She craved the attention and admiration of other people like she needed it to live. And, most of all, she wanted to throw that crutch onto other people. Every person she met was held to impossible standards that always left her disappointed. Taako wanted to say that she liked being disappointed, but he wasn’t sure. It had been a long time since he saw that side of Lup. Being with Barry made her independent, capable of existing outside other people’s spheres. And she made Barry way less of an ass.

Love changes people, doesn’t it?

Taako got that part. Once upon a time, he had a boyfriend too. He can’t remember if it was serious or not, which he supposes means that he wasn’t really into it. He can’t even remember the guy’s name. But being interested in another living being made him want to look better. He wanted to leave an impression, to make the boyfriend cling onto his image and never let go. And strangely, what he recalls the most about this boyfriend is the floor length mirror in the his bedroom, how it was position in direct view of the bed. Taako would spend sluggish mornings before the image of himself, slowly putting clothes back on, wearing more layers of clothing than he ever had before. They were nice clothes too. He was never one-hundred-percent down to teach advance transmutation classes, but the paycheck was nice. And he could spent it all on all the clothes he dreamed of owning as a kid.

But in all his newfound obsession with his looks and the wealth that came with a steady gig, he never bought a mirror. He was used to the blurry reflections in the varnish of boiled-over pots, the ghost of selfs in store windows. Always, he could only handle himself in bite-size pieces.

No one touched his dorm after he left. Which is good. He doesn’t like the idea of anyone rifling through his stuff. But that still leaves him to having to cast a spell on one of his books to make the pages reflective like the finest silver mirror. Sitting on his bed, he brings the mirror up and studies himself. His hair is still damp from his shower, blue strands sticking to his brown skin.

His memory’s not that good. It never has been. He probably got knocked on the head one too many times as a kid. But even when he was locked out of his body in Wonderland, he still remembered every detail of his face. He had to. The elves sometimes brought out his body just to see if he’ll boost them with an extra dose of despair.

He feels like Lup, just studying his face. But he’s not sure what exactly he’s looking for. He picks out the changes they’ve made, but the things that stayed the same feel worse. He hates how he can turn his face to the side and look like himself, but then turn the other and be faced with an empty eye socket. Part of his flesh even cinches inwards from the lack of support. He didn’t know eyeballs help to hold up the skull until he noticed how lumpy the side of his face is.

He turns his face around, fingers brushing locks over his forehead. He pushes them back. He looks the same, but maybe he just wants to look more different. Reborn like a phoenix, or something.

One hand holds the mirror while the other takes his glaive. It takes him an hour of testing, but he eventually settles on a shade of orange that doesn’t scream traffic cone. He looks like an autumn leaf, one he might have crushed under his foot in a brisk forest. He likes it.

Running his hand over his jaw, an intrusive thought jams itself back into his head. When he was a wood mannequin, his limbs meant nothing, and he couldn’t feel anything. He just wanted something to _touch._

At his beckon, his magic jumps from his glaive, scattering over the line of his jaw. Coarse hair grows from his skin, turning into a beard a few shades darker than his hair. Taako studies his mirror, then chucks it aside a moment to scramble across his room. He’s not messy, but everything had its place. A purple box with miscellaneous junk sits on a pile of book, and he rummages through it until he finds a shaving blade. He fixes his beard, making it less rustic and more smart. Less like a youth trying out facial hair for the first time and more like a guy who’s always meant to have it.

It’s not perfect, but his perfection has always been spotted with holes. What it looks like doesn’t matter, and it feels good to think that. Taako dispels his mirror, closing his eyes until black fills his vision. Then he runs his hands over his jaw, feeling the bristles of his facial hair—rough and prickly, a tactile treat.

A reminder.

* * *

When Sloane wakes up, she knows she has a problem. Exhaustion drenches her to the bone, curling deep in the sinews of her muscles with every aching movement. She blinks the blurriness from her vision, the bright lights of the world turning into a white-tiled, curved ceiling. Her blood runs cold. “Shit—” She jolts upright, more than relieved to see no cuffs around her wrists and ankles. She’s not in militia custody, which she can deal with. But the bed she rests on is nothing like anything she’s seen in Goldcliff, her illegal exploration through rich bastards’ mansions included. Sterile and perfect, her calloused hands an affront to its nature.

“Hey.”

Sloane doesn’t want to acknowledge the silhouette of a man lingering in her peripheral. A myriad of different scenes play out in her head, each more horrible than the first, all hinging on how she has no power here, that she’s going to be expected to grovel before whatever bastard saved her from…

That bard tricked her.

Sloane shoots a glare at the man, fully expecting to see some semblance of that dopey jerk who managed to inspire her will away. Instead, she sees the plain makings of an experimentation lab, complete with a counter lined with cabinets brimming with equipment she would rather not think about. Even her extravagant bed is resting on the cold slab of a metal examination table. But sitting at the stool, hands turning her signature mask, is not the bard.

He’s pale, beard equal parts gray and black as he seems to be just tipping over the line where mature turns into old. The flush in his cheeks is dulled. Lines burrow deep in his forehead. His hands look strong, but age wraps his knuckles like a comfortable blanket. For a moment, shock smothers the burning ire in her gut. Somehow, he both looks exactly and nothing like Avi. It has to be a silly leap of faith, a déjà vu popping up at the worst moment. Sloane’s pretty sure she’s convinced herself that’s true when the man says, “Hey, Sloane.”

He sounds like a parody of Avi—similar tones, save for a twang that makes him sound like he’s from a different generation. The same skeleton and similar parts, but built by a different mechanic. He’s the older, almost rugged version of the punk she spent years busking the streets with. The man who looks like Avi tries for a smile, but it has a triangle-strain. Three points of tension, one at each corner of his mouth, the third in the rivets between his brows. The same face the real Avi made while an older battlewagon mechanic showed rowdy youth version of themselves the innards of the wood and steel behemoths, pointing to parts and explaining how they work. Worry marred by tension and masked by concentration. Three points, perfect for the guy who screwed her over three different ways.

“Who are you?” Sloane looks down at where he rubs the feathers of her mask between two fingers. He’s missing a thumb. “How do you know who I am?”

He hesitates. “I’m…” He shrugs. “You know, it doesn’t matter. Call me whatever. And I know you because you saved my friends’ butts.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“You can leave whenever you want. I have no problem with that.” He rises to his feet, swallowing a groan as his back cracks. An amber brandy bottle sits as his feet, top uncapped for easy drinking. “If you want, we can go on a little walk. Chat and catch up?”

Sloane says nothing. She kicks off her blankets, wincing at her own aches and pains as she climbs off the bed. Calming music swells through invisible speakers, giving the room a pleasant ambiance in their silence. Tugging her hair into a high ponytail, taking her time tying the knot of her ribbon, she thinks through her options. As far as she can tell, this isn’t the militia. With any luck, this guy here doesn’t care that she’s the infamous Raven. But, if he does, then he already has her true identity in her hands. Escaping now isn’t going to make a difference.

Except, she might make it home in time to see Hurley again.

Sloane chews her lip. She can see Hurley in the back of her mind, sick with worry the longer she goes without answering her stone. The very least she can do is call first, just to keep her from blaming herself.

“Is there a stone I can use?”

The man raises a brow. “I can take you to one.”

“Then let’s multitask. You got until I get my hand on one to make your pitch.”

* * *

Stevie stares at the dresser pressed against the wall, then back down at her sword. Sweat brims around her hairline, drying with every moment she stands in shock. She looks at the dresser again, the long slash in the wood going down it's wooden sides. A chunk of wood sits on the floor a few feet away, a shard cut perfectly by her blade. She looks between her dresser and sword for what must be the millionth time, one-hundred-percent sure she’s going to be in big trouble.

What did her dad tell her? She couldn’t use the sword without his permission. Will her mom get mad at her for swinging it around her room where she could have very easily done something like this? For sure. Maybe Davenport will get mad at her for wrecking the ship, or even Uncle Taako since he gives her a sharp glare whenever he catches her going in and out.

A series of quiet footsteps pass by her door. Stevie sheaths her sword, then quickly stows it in the crack between Lup’s desk and the wall. She slides onto the floor, picking up a few of her figurines as if she’s just been playing with them all day. If anyone asks, she’ll say the slab of wood fell off all on its own.

She waits and waits, but the footsteps continue by, fading into the usual creaks of the ship. Stevie twists her mouth, setting aside the figurine of the woman knight. Maybe if she finds a bottle of glue somewhere, she can fix the dresser without anyone knowing.

Leaning back, she places a hand on the ground to push herself up, only to knock the woman knight figurine back. It slides against the wood floor, skidding under the bed. Stevie groans, getting on her hands and knees and crawling underneath. Beyond the tuffs of dust bunnies and lost socks is a vent. Stevie worms her way in deeper, reaching for where the figurine sits right next to the slates of metal.

Her fingers curl around it, and the dust bunnies disappear. Gone are the vent, the socks, and even the bed above her. The shadow of her bed is replaced with the warmer tones of the space under a table, a bench in front of her. And sitting on the bench is a pair of slim legs clad in a dark suit. After a moment, the man attached to those legs leans over until his head is under the table.

John.

He looks like how he did last time. Same kindness on his face, same pressed suit. The black scar on his chest and throat now reaches further, inching across his face until the tip rests by the edge of his cupid’s bow. It makes his smile uncanny, something that should make her shiver in fright. But the split of holographic black doesn’t take away from the brightness of his blue eyes, the wrinkles crinkling around them like a caress. “What are you doing down there?” he asks.

Stevie sits up, puffing her chest outwards. Ever since her run in with the militia, she’s been thinking long and hard about what her plan is going to be. Her parents are too busy with the artefacts to be worried about this, but she can handle it herself. Just the other night, she stayed up late with her figurines, brainstorming all the things she can do to help—figuring out a weakness, maybe a battle plan or two. Spy on the enemy the way Uncle Taako complains the Hunger spies on them.

“I was looking for something,” she says, tightening her grip on the figurine. “What are you doing?”

“I guess I’m sitting here and talking to you.”

A beat, the smell of the hearth filling the imitation of her family’s workshop.

“Can I join you?” he asks. When she nods, he slides under the table. He’s taller than she remembers, watching as he struggles to fit his lanky legs in a position that won’t get in anyone’s way. He settles on just stretching them out, his feet poking out from under the table. “There we go. It’s actually pretty nice down here. It reminds me of a blanket fort.”

Stevie tries to keep a straight face, intent on her goal, but her mouth betrays her with a smile. Or at least, she thinks she just smiles. She has to be doing something different with her face since John raises a brow at her. “Do you want to make one?” he asks.

She wipes all emotion from her face, keeping her mouth small and eyes grave as she nods. “ _Mmmhmm.”_

“Okay, let’s see…” He scratches his chin, thinking. “Alright, how about this.” He makes a big show as he rubs his hands together, watching her smile return in full as his focus grows more intense and more comical. Finally, he separates his hands, holding them out towards her. “Okay, so take my hand.”

She hesitates.

“What’s wrong? I’m just going to do a little magic.” He pushes them closer. “Give me your hands now.” She places her hands on his. John’s grip is gentle, skin warm from the friction of his little show. She can feel every wrinkle, the writer’s bump on his middle finger as his grip tightens. “Okay, so close your eyes. On the count of three, open them.”

“This sounds like something for kids,” Stevie says.

“You’re a kid.”

“I’m mature.”

He snorts. “Okay, then humor me? I never had any kids of my own.”

“Fine,” she grumbles before closing them.

John swings her hands back and forth, humming as if they’re players in a dance. “Okay… on the count of three. One… two… three!”

When she opens her eyes, a white blanket drapes over the sides of the table. A pile of pillows and blankets covers whatever floor space they haven’t taken up. Sparks dazzle in her eyes, mouth agape in awe as she looks at everything. It’s the blanket fort of her dreams. Still, she twists her mouth, saying, “You didn’t even use your own magic.”

“What makes you say—”

“The tea set! That appeared out of nowhere last time. It’s just parley.”

“You got me there.” His eyes twinkle. When he winks, she can see the muscles in his neck flex, inevitably stretching the black gash outwards until she can get a closer look at its rainbow swirls. The sight of the Hunger spilling into the snowy landscape just outside the windows fills her memories, and a big part of her wants to ask what happened to him. But before she can say anything, his grip on her hands gets a little tighter. “I just want to apologize for how intense things got last time. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The dead air is her space to respond. Dumbly, she swallows. “Okay.”

“Frankly, I was terrified that you weren’t going to follow your promise to see me again. I’ve just been waiting for you to come back.”

“But…” She trails off.

He leans forward. “No, what is it?”

“Don’t you bring me here?”

He nods. “Yes, I do. But you could be busy doing things, or you might not even want to see me all the time. So I’ve been waiting on you to say you wanted to see me.”

Stevie wrinkles her nose. She’s been thinking about John and her plan nonstop, but did she ever say that she wanted to see him?

Before she can think about it more, John drags her hands up until she’s forced to look into his eyes. “Listen to me, Stevie. Friends help each other out, no matter what. If you ever want to see me, even if it’s just to check in and say hello, all you have to do is say my name. I’m always right here for you.”

Her thoughts hit a mental barrier, stalling before they can reach any semblance of coherency. Her brain feels alight with the buzz of his words, but none of them have any real shape. Part of her still has a hand on the fact that she’s been thinking about John constantly, from the moment she wakes to every lull in conversation at the dinner table. But it can’t decide if she ever said anything out loud about him. All the while, another part of her wades through the idea of being friends. Isn’t her plan to trick him? Did that involve being friends, or was she just going to be like Merle and sit across from him at the table every day? She can’t do that now, not when they’re both under the table and cuddled by the softest blankets she’s ever felt—

John’s grip tightens. “What’s on your mind?”

“Uh…” She chooses a thought and sticks to it. “We’re friends?”

“Are we not friends?”

She shrugs. “You’re _you_.”

“I’m…” He sighs, despondent. When his fingers uncurl, her hands drop onto her lap. He takes his time puzzling through his next words, almost starting and stopping a few times. Finally, he turns his face away and studies the soft glow of light pushing to break through the soft white of the blanket. “I don’t expect you to think otherwise, Stevie. That’s what your parents have been telling you your whole life.”

By instinct, she grabs her arms, holding herself as tight as she can. “Are you not?”

His hand reaches between the pillows, pulling out her figurine of the woman knight. Sometime between arriving and ending under the table with the sight of his weighted frown, she dropped the figurine in favor of his hands. Now he turns it around studying her father’s intricate carving work. “The universe inherently does not care about us. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad. It’s wholly indifferent to our struggles. It’s cold, and massive, and expressionless. Our existence in it has no bearing. And it goes on for eternity. An endless, meaningless dredge of pain and agony that no one can truly comprehend, yet we are doomed to wait through. It’s…” He pauses, starting his thought over. “What is the worst thing that’s happen to you?”

“Huh?”

“Just one thing.” He holds up a finger to emphasize the point. “One bad thing. Anything.”

First, her mind goes to the roaring noise that had invaded her Midsummer Festival—the knowledge that John was coming and that her world is in danger. But mentioning that now, with him looking at her with such expectancy, felt _wrong._ It's the same as slapping him across the face and spitting at his shoes. She tries to put her parents in her shoes for any idea of what to do, but her mind finds the picture of her decade-and-a-half older mom sans arm and leg and clings to it. Stevie swallows, hugging her knees a little tighter. “My mom got really hurt.”

John nods, thinking it over. “Did I…” He clears the uncertainty from his throat. “Did I cause it?”

“No.” Stevie looks up, as if the thought hadn’t dawned on her before. The Hunger wasn’t in Wonderland, or even at Fantasy Costco. “It was, like, these two elves who did it.”

“I’m sorry your mom got hurt.”

“You didn’t do it.”

“Doesn’t mean I still can’t be remorseful.”

Stevie stares at him.

John releases another long breath, his thumb smoothing the hair of the figurine. “There’s a point I’m trying to reach here, Stevie. Horrible things happen in the universe every day, often with no reason to people who don’t deserve it. Am I a bad person for wanting to change things?”

“But…” She waits for him to get defensive like Uncle Merle sometimes gets, but instead he nods and leans ever closer, wanting to hear. “But you hurt people.”

Again, he seems to really think about what he’s going to say. “Has your family, in trying to do what they think is right, ever hurt anyone?”

She looks away, studying her knees. A little bandage is wrapped around her kneecap from when she fell while running up the stairs. Her mind wanders to Raven’s Roost and all her friends, how she could be wearing pants and anticipating the first snowfall of the upcoming winter. But before she can hate how she’s stuck in a hot desert, wearing her summer clothes as the calendar inches closer towards Candlenights, John’s words brings her back into focus. She knows from stories told by both her parents and her classmates that she was there when they killed the Mad Governor Kalen—strapped to her parents’ chest as a red-faced newborn. They killed Kalen because he destroyed Raven’s Roost, but isn’t killing people a bad thing? Over a game of jacks, Piper sometimes talks about how some of the things Kalen supported were good. Maybe Kalen also thought he was doing the right thing.

When she plays with her figurines, crafting a legend she wants to one day live, she sometimes make characters who do things that seem bad, but are actually good. Didn’t the woman knight kill a ruinous king to save the land, only to become an outlaw herself? Isn’t good and bad a mixture of paints that change color depending on the glasses you wear? Her mom and dad are going to be mad about the dresser, but she knows she was only practicing her sword fighting for when she really needs it, because she’s a hero. She’s a hero, but maybe in someone else’s eyes, she’s the bad guy.

“Can you please look at me?”

She does. His eyes are still sad, but she can see a new emotion swirling in them. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That got very intense. You probably didn’t like hearing any of that.”

“It’s fine.” Her voice is so small, and it makes her jolt.

John holds out the figurine, shaking it until she lets go of her knees to take it. “She’s really pretty,” he says. “Can you tell me about her?”

“She’s a knight. And a hero.”

“She looks like you,” John says. “Can you show me how to play?”

Like that, the box brimming with the rest of her figurines pops into existence. She unfolds her legs, slow with hesitance as she opens the lid. She’s greeted by the familiar, painted wood of all her figurines, all sporting the same scratches and bruises her real box has back in her room. Stevie smiles so hard, buzzing with excitement as she starts setting up the scene. Her hands shake with bright energy. “Okay, so—here take this.” She thrusts the woman knight back into his hands, immediately setting up some generic soldiers in an orderly line. “So that’s the hero and she’s going up against an evil army—it, uh, it used to be called the Hunger but we can change it to something else.”

John hums. “How about the Vultures?”

Relief she doesn’t know she needs flushes through her. “Yeah, okay! The Vulture Army. I can be the knight. Let me find someone for you.” She rummages through her box, before sighing and just holding it out for him. "Chose one."

He sorts through the box with careful fingers, finally pulling out a figure of a bard. He smiles. “Okay. What next?”

* * *

The man must be taking her the long way around the Miller Labs, which on principal is more than annoying, but Sloane’s trying hard not to be too mad. The facility is beautiful, and the man seems to know what kind of sights she wants to see before she even names them—the curved ceilings of opulent parlors, the sleek industrial sheen of workshops, the awe-inspiring view of the Stillwater Sea in autumn. With the brandy bottle in one hand (a trait so wholly Avi it’s almost scary), he guides the conversation swiftly from the weather to what she’s actually experiencing.

When he tells her about the Grand Relics and the mission of his group, they’re in a green house, pre-winter sunlight pushing through the glass dome as humid air sticks to their skin. She’s happy that she doesn’t have a jacket, keeping pace with him as they tread a stone path between exotic plants she hasn’t seen beyond the landscapes of foreign lands she sometimes spies in a rich mansion. “What we do is important,” the man says. “It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.”

Sloane kicks a stray rock. “How does something like this even start?”

“What starts?”

“This.” She jerks her head towards the glimmering hexagons panels making up the glass walls. “A bunch of people just deciding to do something like this. How does anyone get wrapped up in it?”

He thinks about it for a moment, nails scratching the gray stubs of hair on his neck. “I think it’s the same way a battlewagon race starts.”

“So sticking it to the man?”

He shrugs. “For a long time, we were the only ones at it.” Their garden paths ends, leading them to an airlock. The man taps a few buttons, a pleasant chime ringing through the air before the door opens with a sigh. The dome they step in is more communal, a collection of comfortable couches and impressive bookshelves framing their path to the open kitchen. A covered pot sits at the stove, and the smell of simmering stew greets Sloane warmly. The man meanders to a liquor cabinet, fiddling with the lock for a moment longer than needed. He switches his half-finished brandy for a bottle of whiskey. “Want some?”

He’s already pulling out two small glasses when she shrugs. “Why not?”

She meanders around the room, dragging light fingers over the bookshelves and wallpapered walls. All the woodwork is a dark mahogany that threatens to be deeper than the shade of her skin. Her henna tattoos are starting to fade, and she makes a note to redo them once she returns back to Hurley.

Hurley. Her chest twists. It’s been over a week since she dangled the idea of stealing from the Hammerheads in front of her face. She has to be blaming herself, thinking that all this must be her fault.

The man approaches her, shots of brandy in each hand. “Cheers,” he says, clinking their glasses together. He downs his in a single gulp. Sloane sips at hers. “So, what do you think?”

“It…” She shrugs. “It burns?”

“No, of us. Saving the world from the Grand Relics. What do you think?”

“It’s fine.” Sloane places her glass on one of the shelves before walking back to the center of the room. “Look, this whole vigilante justice thing isn’t my em-oh. I’m just trying to get through life with as little trouble as possible.”

“You’re a thief, Sloane.”

“My tolerance for trouble is a lot stronger than most.”

He waits as she turns around, giving a little smirk before laying out on one of the couches. “I know you’re a good person, Sloane," he says. "This would be perfect for you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

He looks ready to say something, only to swallow back his words. He sighs. “Let me go get you a stone—”

One of the airlocks on the far end of the room hisses open, revealing a dark elf woman with a pair of sunglasses over her eyes. She clutches an umbrella in her hand, huffing as she marches away from a robot projecting the image of a human just scraping out of his teen years. “Really, it won’t be any trouble at all,” he says. “And if it doesn’t work, we can just find another solution.”

“I never asked for your help, Lucas,” the drow snaps, setting her umbrella aside to open the lid of the simmering pot of stew. Sloane shifts in her seat, wondering if there’s a way she can get out of here without anyone knowing. “Don’t you have experiments to be running or something?”

The image of Lucas Miller pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Of course I’m very busy, but it is also in everyone’s best interest that our top and frankly only magic user is at peak condition. Soulwood isn’t even harmful, and it’ll at the very least be worth the try—”

She jams her thumb towards him. “I have a red thumb.”

He pauses. “A what?”

“Red thumb. Red’s opposite of green. Keep up.”

He clears his throat. “Yes, yes. Of course. I understand your reluctance, Ren, but my chief concern is making sure that you’re okay and can be the best you can be—not that you aren’t already amazing—”

Ren grimaces. “Listen, brat. I’m only going to say this once—I’m old enough to be your mom twice over. You need to start barking up a different tree.”

“Uh-uh-uh—well, you see that age differences between races of vastly different lifespans is a complicated subject, and as they say, when the bard played for the Raven Queen…”

Ren rolls her head as if they’re her eyes. “Avi, I know you’re in here. Back me up on this.”

Sloane jumps to her feet. “Avi?”

The man nearly drops his empty tumbler, muttering a few swears before managing to jam it back onto the bookshelf. Some parts of his face just reminds her of Avi, but he’s from a different generation. Being a half elf, her lifespan is different from his, but she knows she hasn’t lost track of time that much. That has to be Avi, and something happened to him.

All eyes are on her as she feels her simmering blood begin to boil. She doesn’t want to be concerned. She wants to wring his neck and get him to pay for all the bullshit he put her through. She already tried to reconcile, only for him to turn his back on her and get her thrown in the slammer. The snot nose runaway from Bandybuck who busked the streets with her in poverty, turning his back on her the moment he thought something better had come up.

Avi has both his hands up in the universal sign of peace. “I know you’re pissed,” he says. “I was horrible to you. I’m trying to make things right.”

She can’t help her bark of laughter. “Oh, by lying to me again? You’re just really trying to piss me off now, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying to make things right. I know you’re the Raven and you’re struggling. You’re in this cycle, and doing this can get you out of it.”

“Oh, so I’m the one with the problem?” She storms up to him, grabbing the collar of his shirt. They’re the same height, but she makes a point to jerk him around. Avi yelps, but lets her do it. “You lied to me. It’s like you took a playbook on how to be a horrible person and did it word by fucking word.”

“I know. Things are different now. Bane gave me a chance. I’m sure he’ll give you one too.”

“Bane?” Sloane stares as his breath comes out heavy. “Captain Captain Bane is in on this bullshit?” She snorts. “I can’t believe this—there you were spouting this bullshit about wanting to do good in the world, but you’re just trying to get this guy to owe you something.”

“No I’m not—”

“Oh cut the crap. I know you. You probably thought this was some kind of shortcut to becoming an officer. That’s just how you operate, isn’t it?”

He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself. “I’m not trying to do that.”

“Well you got five seconds before I start punching.”

In that same, careful cadence, he says, “I’m in debt to Bane. I’m here cause I owe him, but doesn’t mean I don’t think this isn’t something worth doing.”

Sloane’s upper lip curls. In a snap, she rams her fist into the side of his face, letting go of his collar so that he falls onto the ground. “Just get me that goddamn stone already.”

Avi drags his forearm over his mouth, catching blood that isn’t there. When he looks up at her, all she can see is an old man tipping past his prime. For a second, she wishes it was the same young fire blast she could remember with a scowl. She goes back to the couch, sitting with her arms crossed over her chest. “Get me that stone. Now. I have a call I need to make.”

Sloane pretends not to see when Avi needs Ren and the robot Lucas controls to help him back onto his old feet.

Fifteen minutes later, the drow tosses a stone onto her lap. Or at least tries to. It hits the cushions at Sloane’s side, causing her to raise a brow. “Have fun,” Ren snaps before going back to her pot of stew. Avi’s sitting by counter, hunched as if he’s trying to hide.

Sloane leans over the back of the couch. “Can’t I get a little privacy?”

“My stone, my rules.”

Sloane grumbles, but slides deeper into the cushions. She sits as if she’s hiding from bolts of magic, positioned as if ready to spring to action at any given moment. Making sure Avi is still too busy with his drink and Ren with her stew (Lucas’s robot seemed to have left), Sloane deems it safe enough to type in the series of runes she knows by heart.

A few rings, then: “Hello?”

Sloane sighs. “Hey, Lee.”

“Sloane? Where the hell have you been?” Even when upset, Hurley’s voice is like a blessing. Edgy nerves she didn’t realize she had feel smoothed over, healed down into perfection. “God, things have been so crazy—I thought something happened to you, and I—”

“I’m fine, Lee.” A lump of emotion clogs her throat, making it hard to breath. “God, I—it’s just good to hear from you.”

“What happened? The battlewagon’s gone and you haven’t been home.”

Sloane tells her everything from her stalking of Johann to her fight with the Hammerheads. A part of her feels like everything Avi said about his organization and their mission should be top secret, but Sloane wouldn’t dare consider keeping something like that from Hurley. She tells it all in a quiet voice, occasionally looking back over the side of the couch to make sure Ren and Avi weren’t going to stop her. Neither did. They're making a considerable effort to pretend they're not listening.

“Are you going to do it?” Hurley asks once it’s all over.

“No, it’s stupid.”

“Yeah, that’s smart…” Hurley sighs. “But Captain Captain Bane? Are you sure? He’s my boss, and he’s literally in Neverwinter right now helping them deal with these Red Robes rumors. You can’t be saying all of it is serious.”

“I hate to say it.” Sloane toys with the end of her braid. “What a fucked up world. Of course he’s still corrupt, no matter what.”

For a moment, neither say anything.

“I’ll see if I can get away soon,” Sloane says.

“Please.”

She pauses. Hurley’s voice rarely if ever gets that small. Her worry is palpable, seeping into the air from hundreds of miles away. Sloane presses her hand to her chest, feeling the ache in her chest grow. “Hey, Lee? Don’t worry, okay? I’m a big tough girl. I have the wagon. I’ll just drive it back and we can be back to owning the races as soon as possible.”

“Promise?”

She likes the lilt of hope in her other half’s voice. “Raven and Ram forever.”

“Be careful Sloane.”

Sloane smiles. “Will do.”

When she hangs up, she uncurls from the couch and marches over to the kitchen. She slams the stone of farspeech on the counter. Avi startles. Ren snaps for her to be careful with other people’s belongings. “Where’s my wagon?”

Her wagon, it turns out, is parked in the thicket by the docks of the lake. A domesticated bugbear rows her out, along with Avi and a pipe-smoking gnome. Avi looks at her with eyes that are sad and old. “Are you sure you don’t wanna—”

“Save it, Bee,” Sloane snaps.

And that should’ve been the end of it.

“Istus works in mysterious ways,” the gnome says between puffs of his pipe, every exhale leaving a cloud of purple wafting into the air.

Sloane has the hood of her wagon propped up, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she studies what parts of the engine hasn’t been ransacked during the night. Which is to say, not a lot. The pride and joy her life is now nothing more than an empty skeleton. “This isn’t fucking—” She slammed the hood shut, turning her glare on Avi. “You planned this!”

Avi raises his hands in the air. “I swear I didn’t!”

“Maybe you’re meant to stick around for a while,” the gnome says.

“Leon, don’t.” Avi pinches his brow. “Look—I’ll help you fix it. We’ll get new parts and we’ll get it up and running as soon as possible.”

She continues to glare.

“Sloane, I promise. I’m not trying to screw you over. Hell, you want some free upgrades? Sure we can pull something together to make the old gal race better.”

Sloane rolls her sleeves back down, looking away as she thinks it over. The sun is starting to orange with the late autumn dusk. She wants to go home, but her entire life is in these races. Leaving without her wagon is letting Avi screw her life over a second time. “Fine,” she says at last. “Just don’t fuck this one up.”

Avi releases a long breath. He looks younger. “Promise.”

* * *

Lucretia has one of the chalkboards from Barry and Lup’s lab in the kitchen, splicing the room in half as she draws a piece of chalk over the dark green surface. Her movements a slow and tender, hesitant to agitate the remains of her wound. “So if Taako’s right and they already have Merle’s sash—”

“Belt,” Merle corrects, sipping at his cup of coffee.

Lucretia pauses, mid-letter as she turns to look at him. “I don’t know how to tell you this—”

“Then don’t.”

“—it’s a sash.”

He bats her words away. “Tomatoes, _tomatoes_.”

Lucretia’s mouth sets in a thin line, watching as he smugly sips at his coffee. The rest of them don’t dare to have any food out, not with Magnus on the deck, trying to patch up the hole in the ceiling caused by the Baller Barry Bluejeans. The rich desert sun shines a halo around their table, blocked out only when Magnus’s hulking form leans over them. He sticks his head through the ceiling now, saying, “I always thought it was a scarf.”

“Stylistically, that, uh, makes no sense,” Taako chimes, stroking his beard as his feet sit on the table. He doesn’t seem perturbed by the way they sit in front of Julia, making her stab him with nothing but the venom in her eyes. “But I wouldn’t put it pass ya to think a scarf goes around the waist.”

“That beard makes no sense,” Merle says.

Taako runs his hands over it, quirking a brow. “Jealous?”

Magnus moves aside a loose board, his head popping back into view. “You’re infringing on my trademark!”

“I wear it better than you.”

Julia buries her face in her hand. “Oh my gods.”

Davenport coughs and bangs his hand on the table. They’ve already experimented with learning sign language, but the Wonderland twins seemed to have cut off his ability to interact with any kind of speech. Writing, talking, signing—all of them are disrupted by the constant repetition of his name. He’s been in more than a sour mood since, and everyone is quick to hush up and let Lucretia continue.

She takes a moment to compose herself. “Right. Of course. So if Taako’s correct, then they have not only the gauntlet, the bell, and the chalice; but also Merle’s…” She makes a face as her writing hand struggles to catch up with her voice. “Belt.”

“Thank you,” Merle says.

“And we have the monocle. That leaves two of our artefacts unaccounted for—Taako’s stone and my staff. We still have eight months find them and the location of the rest. According to Barry, none of them were in their hideout in Goldcliff, so they have to be somewhere else.”

“If they’re somewhere else, then I feel like it would have to be someplace far from civilization,” Julia says. “Having a few of them grouped together creates a draw strong enough to attract the Hunger. Why not normal people?”

“Well, they got those headphones,” Lucretia says. “If they can negate the effects, then they can be hiding anywhere.”

Magnus peers back in. “How about—we better hope that they’re not close to Neverwinter. Or the north in general.”

Taako nods sagely. “Mass hysteria. What a bitch.”

“And whose fault is that?” Julia drawls.

Magnus scowls. Their argument has reached the one week mark, giving them more than enough time to cool off. For the most part, they have. He’s sleeping in their bed again, albeit because his back was aching from the uneven cushions of the couch. They put aside their argument long enough for Magnus to craft a wood prosthetic leg she feels comfortable walking on. Her gait is hesitant like a child, and he’s there to help her upright. Sheer stubbornness is the only thing standing between them now, and they refuse to make those first few steps down forgiveness’s path. They’re a softer form a tense.

Clapping the dust off her hands, Lucretia gestures for Merle to push the chalkboard out of the kitchen. “I’ll start looking into some of my connections from my travels and see if anyone has heard anything. The sooner we start looking, the sooner we’ll find them.”

Meeting adjourned, everyone scatters. Taako stretches his back like a languid cat before vacating his seat to look inside the ice box for food. Merle pushes the chalkboard out, giving Davenport the opportunity to duck out without anyone noticing. Julia massages the flesh of her stump leg, grimacing at unspoken pain. “Need help?” Lucretia asks.

“Just a little phantom pain.” She makes a face. “Could be worse.”

“Have you felt any for your arm yet?”

“Luckily, no. But I bet it’ll come soon.” Julia pauses as Magnus starts hammering at the ceiling. The booms are loud and obnoxious, yet reminiscent of the peaceful days at the Hammer and Tongs. Sometimes, when someone turns on the stove, the scent of the flames reminds her of sweating before the forge, laboring to bend molten metal into a masterpiece that far surpasses it’s humble roots.

With every hammer downwards, a thought she hasn’t had yet dawns on her. Julia lifts her hand, staring at the lines defining her palm.

At last, Magnus finishes nailing.

“Is there something bothering you?” Lucretia asks.

She doesn’t want to voice it, but it tumbles out of her mouth nonetheless. “I can’t smith anymore.”

Lucretia is silent.

“I didn’t think about that until now,” Julia continues, mostly to fill the air. She studies her one hand, mostly to avoid seeing the pity on her best friend’s face. “Maybe I should’ve sooner, but I’m not going to have a job. I’m jobless.”

Lucretia slides her hand across the table, but Julia doesn’t take it. “You know, there’s plenty of one-armed people out there who’ve managed to do a lot of incredible things. It’ll take time and practice, but you’re a master. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Julia’s hand curls into a fist. “Honestly, I don’t think I want to talk about it.”

Guilt paints Lucretia's face. “Oh.”

She finally smiles, letting her hand fall onto the table with a thud. “Is it alright if I borrow your paints for a bit? I had an idea the other day.”

“You’re avoiding the problem,” Lucretia says.

“And? Are you going to make Merle _zone of truth_ it out of me?”

Lucretia drags her hands down her face, a swear on her lips. “Alright. Message received. Can I ask why?”

Julia shrugs, undoing the buckles strapping her prosthetic leg to her thigh. “I want Stevie to decorate this. I think it’ll help her adjust.”

Lucretia tilts her head. “Huh. That actually sounds really solid.”

“So can I borrow them?”

Lucretia starts for the door. “I’ll do you one better and bring her over right now myself. Do you know where she is?”

“Probably her room. She spends a lot of time there.”

Lucretia smiles as if Stevie being holed up by herself isn’t out of the ordinary, and goes through the doorway. The soles of her slippers brush against the wood floor of the hallway. Julia leans back in her chair, holding her leg in one hand as the other tests the ball joints. Metal springs give her support and agility, but from the knee below resembles nothing close to a human leg. The wood curves into a semicircle that bounces her forward with every step. Lucretia had done a lot of research into prosthetic limbs for Magnus to make one perfect for her skillset. Julia knows that, with enough practice, she’ll be able to convince Davenport to let her out on another retrieval.

She has to go out, especially when she can feel the weight of Davenport’s growing hopelessness and Taako’s refusal to give a damn. More than anything, she loathes a future where she’ll be the only one left with hope.

Julia hears Stevie’s patter of fast feet before she sees her burst through the kitchen door, a giant grin on her face. She all but springs to the table, hands on the table as she bounces on her feet. “You have a surprise?” she asks.

Julia can’t helped her stunned face, but at least her mouth is in a smile as well. This is the Stevie that’s been missing—the one who buzzes in her spot, hair wild and eyes impatient. Lucretia comes quietly from the hallway, her arms full of paints. Her eyes are soft.

Julia lifts her prosthetic leg onto the table, feeling some of Stevie’s enthusiasm tamper off. Some, not all. Her eyes bulge, but she vibrates with excitement. “Wanna decorate my new leg?”

Stevie thinks about it for a moment. Her hand is hesitant, but when she touches the smooth wood, her apprehension disappears. “Can I paint snow?”

Julia laughs. “Sure.”

“Let me get some brush water,” Lucretia says, setting the paints on the table. She goes to the cabinet over the sink, ignoring how Taako leans against the counter with a bowl of yogurt in one hand and a scowl on his face.

“Do you want to paint the Power Bear?” Julia asks as Stevie starts uncapping the bottle of white paint.

“Nah, I’m over the Power Bear.” Stevie sorts through the bottles, unaware of the sudden sadness in Julia’s eyes. “I wanna paint a rainbow.”

“I hope that’s in honor of your favorite aunt,” Lucretia says, setting a mug of water on the table.

Stevie sticks her tongue out.

“Hold on.” Julia resists the urge to groan as Taako sets his bowl on the counter. “Uh, not that’s it’s my business or anything, but dontcha also have, uh, another kid who should be doing this?”

“What?”

“The other brat! There’s two of you—” He wags his spoon at Stevie, causing her to pout and stick her tongue at him. “—Just running amok.”

Lucretia mutters something in a language Julia doesn’t know. “Taako,” Julia says. “I have one kid.”

“Oof, don’t let him hear you talk about him like that.”

“Taako.” Lucretia pinches the bridge of her nose. “Are you telling me that there’s another kid running around the ship and you didn’t tell anyone?”

Taako makes a face. “Hey, listen. I can’t be expected to keep track of everything—”

“Oh my god,” Julia says. “We have a stowaway.”

“Are we going to interrogate a child? _Ex-cel-lent.”_ Taako pushes aside his robe, digging through his oppressive layers of clothes until he pulls out what looks like a disc of black rubber. “Give me one second.” A throws the disc on the ground. With a spark of magic, a hole appears in the floor a few feet wide. Ignoring Magnus as he sticks his head through the ceiling and complain about having to fix another hole, Taako casts _Bigby’s hand_ _._

A magic hand sprouts from his glaive, going through the hole and into the storage room. Tongue at the corner of his mouth, Taako hums a little note as he fishes.

There’s a small shout of surprise.

With a victorious whistle, Taako twirls his glaive and calls the hand back.

From the hole, it drags up a little boy wearing the sweater of a much older man. Struggling to keep both his hat and his glasses in place, his legs kick out in an attempt to kick back the magic. “Let me go! Or else!”

“Oh my god,” Lucretia says as everyone stares. “Angus?”

Taako leers, bending down so that his smug disposition is right in Angus McDonald’s face. “Or else what?”

Julia swears she’ll treasure the memory of Taako taking the kick of a polish penny loafer to the face for the rest of her life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said that I was going to keep the chapters on the shorter side, and I am incapable of keeping that promise. 
> 
> For those who skipped the Stevie & John scene: after damaging her dresser, Stevie (who has decided that being a hero means that she should be using her parleys with John as a means to spy on him) is suddenly pulled into parley. Since she was on the ground when it happened, she ends up under the table while John sits in a chair. After joining her on the floor, he manages to make her loosen up by making the space under the table a blanket fort. He tells her that he's always going to wait until she asks to be brought into parley. This makes her question if, by thinking about her plan into tricking him into revealing a weakness, she had inevitably asked him to bring her there this time around. Before she can really think it through, John tells her that he's always going to be there for her since they're friends. Stevie manages to question him on that, reminding him that he's still the bad guy. However, John tells her that all the things he's done is because he's trying to do the right thing. He reminds her that her own parents have done bad things for the right reasons, which leads to Stevie realizing that morality is not as clear as she wants it to be. There is the possibility that John is the good guy. Wanting to get away from another intense moment, John asks if she can show him how to play with her figurines. Stevie sets up a game, he gets a figurine of his own, and Stevie manages to have fun for the first time in a long time. 
> 
> There's a crap ton of things I want to talk about in my chapter notes, including me rambling about small details like the role of stoves in this universe. If you're interested in reading any of it, you can find it [here. ](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/180508568681/northern-migration-chapter-25-notes-preview)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this fic! My life has been crazy lately, and it's only going to get crazier now that I have finals coming up. Writing this fic really is something brightens up my day, and I'm always happy to learn of when it brightens up yours. So thank you for reading and just keeping up with it. You're the best! XOXOXOXOXXOOX


	26. In Which Merle Starts Listening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angus is interrogated. Bane is uneasy. Killian is gay. Barry tries to make friends.

Angus McDonald sits with his hands folded calmly on his lap, fancy clothes unruffled as he looks up at the circle of adults surrounding him. It’s plain from the slight quirk in his brow that nothing about being held up in the _Starblaster_ kitchen is by any means threatening. He sits, mouth in a tight line, as he waits for his turn to speak.

“You’re such a drama queen,” Lucretia says dully, pressing a bag of frozen peas to Taako’s face.

He takes it gladly, collapsed against the kitchen counter as he moans. Angus’s hardy kick was enough to make a single drop of blood creep down from his nose. “I’m dying, Lucy. When I go, tell Merle he could fuck off.”

“Whatever I do to you?” Merle demands, turning from his job of standing by Davenport’s side to shout.

Davenport, all the while, has his arms folded over his chest. His eyes are set in a harsh glare that makes Angus shift in his seat. Every adult in the room Angus is pretty sure he can handle, but Davenport is somewhere on the level of a god. Flanking each of his sides is one of the Burnsides, with Magnus in a pair of paint-splattered work clothes and Julia in a chair, her prosthetic leg still in her daughter’s possession. The kid was ordered to leave the room, but Angus saw her creep back in, armed with the prosthetic leg and a set of paints. She claimed the corner directly across from him. Every now and then, Merle and Taako make gestures grand enough that Angus catches a glimpse of the girl watching him as a curious spectator.

Davenport sighs, then nudges Magnus’s leg. At the cue, Magnus bends down into a squat, leveling with Angus’s eyes. “Angus. What are you doing here?”

“I—” Angus closes his mouth. He shifts until he’s back to the picture of innocence.

“We’re not mad at you,” Magnus says. “It’s just… we do a lot of dangerous things, and I’m sure your job as a consultant is plenty dangerous enough—”

“Detective.”

Magnus pauses. “What?”

Angus preens. “If case you forgot, my name is Angus McDonald and I am the world’s greatest detective. If you’re trying to interrogate me, I suggest that you do your best to ensure that you’re coming in with the most accurate information.”

“Wow,” Julia says, which is the first thing of importance she’s said since this whole thing started. Angus is a spindly thing, and it makes him look smaller than he really is. She knows that if he were to stand, he would be a couple of inches taller than Stevie—and she’s already tall for her age. What’s more, he has this little voice that seems to struggle for every breath. He pauses to breathe in the middle of sentences, stopping and starting like a struggling instrument.

Magnus gives him a tight look. “Detective. Right. I’m sorry I forgot that. You did figure out a lot of really important things back on the train.”

If Magnus is relying on being a comforting dad, Julia props her chin on her hand as if she’s ready to scold the daylights out of him. “So you snuck onto here and have been eavesdropping on everything we do because you’re a, uh, _detective?”_

Angus’s cheeks puff. “I am a detective! Excuse me for saying this, Miss, but you don’t have to be so condescending about it.”

“You haven’t done anything to earn my respect yet.” Julia states it so plainly, even Angus seems a little amazed at how the heat of shame permeates every inch of skin. “If you want us to respect you, you have to respect us and our privacy first. Understand?”

Angus huffs and looks at the ground. “Yes, ma’am.”

From behind his bag of frozen peas, Taako barks a loud laugh. Lucretia shoves her hand over his, which moves the bag into his face. He shouts and falls back onto the counter, flaying arm hitting the cabinet and making all the plateware inside clink together.

Magnus creeps forward. His hand is large and heavy. When he places it on Angus’s shoulder, the kid’s look of shame brightens. “Listen, Angus? Right now we just want to know what you’re doing here. I promise we’re not going to get mad.”

“I’m not promising that,” Merle mutters.

Davenport elbows him with a sharp glare.

Angus takes a long breath, eyes jumping to every corner of the kitchen. Like every other quick scan, there’s no obvious escapes in sight, at least none that will get him out and home safe. He at least tries to hide his looks behind a second woeful sigh, but Julia raises a brow in a way that tells him he’s not as slick as he thinks he is.

Finally, after a long moment of rumination, Angus talks. “After our coincidental meeting on the Rockport Limited and the subsequent battle at Fantasy Costco, I decided to make my next case you guys. The, well. The Red Robes. No one knew what your aim was or even if it would be possible. No offense, but you can’t blame me. You, Miss Lucretia, and Captain Davenport make no sense. You’re both smarter than you look, yet susceptible to dumb or rash decisions. To the civilian eye, your intentions seem dubious and yet you tell the whole world you’re here for peace. You’re a dichotomy of atypical villainy and righteous heroism. You made the Grand Relics, but also want to stop them. It all makes for a fascinating mystery, and I’ve made it my mission to uncover it.”

Julia positions her arm over her chest as if she wants to fold them. “Okay. And what have you uncovered?”

“I aimed the initial stage of my investigation in discovering what I could about your civilian livelihoods. Nothing of particular note can be made except for the fact that Mr. Burnsides, Captain Davenport, and Miss Lucretia all did not seem to exist until twelve years ago. I did my best to trace the history of the Grand Relics. Despite being the source of what is rumored to be a significant amount of strife, there’s not a lot written about them. A proposed thesis from a wizard known as the Black Spider to the Neverwinter University was the closest I could find, but it had been rejected for lack of factual evidence.”

“And what is this building us to?”

“It’s building up to… well, it makes no sense. How can there be so many significant incidents caused by the Grand Relics, and yet they remained rumored until your speech at Costco? And even more bizarrely, there’s empirical evidence that the struggle to claim any of the relics lead to what can be considered war, and yet no one acknowledges one happening. At least, not on a conscious level.”

“Oh my god,” Taako says. “He’s bringing in Freud.”

Angus turns to him. “I don’t know who Freud is,” he says with strained politeness. “What I do know is that the amounts of books and plays pertaining to themes of war have increased in this past decade. No one remembers a war, and yet it’s left a significant cultural impact. Therefore, you have to be suppressing memories. I don’t know what kind of magic is capable of messing with the minds of an entire planet, but it’s not unreasonable to believe that if you created the Grand Relics, then you have the power to do that.”

He turns his eyes onto Julia, irises blazed behind the frames of his oversized glasses. “Tell me I’m right.”

“Suppressing memories,” Julia says.

“Angus.” Magnus gnaws on his words for a moment, trying to decide what he should say. “You did a great job. You should be very proud of yourself.”

The boy dazzles for a moment, before remembering himself. “Sir. Am I correct?”

Magnus is about to answer when Lucretia clears her throat. “One more thing,” she says, still holding Taako down by the peas. “How did you even sneak on? We’ve been here in the desert for a few weeks now.”

“When your ship past over Neverwinter, I followed it’s trajectory to the edge of the Felicity Wilds and snuck on then.” Julia and Davenport give their partners glares of equal measure, making Magnus and Merle give sheepish expressions. Angus looks sympathetic. “I mean, if it’s any comfort to you, I was almost caught by…” He leans over, craning his neck to look over Taako. “Over there—um, Miss?”

Everyone turns to see Stevie cross-legged, prosthetic leg in hands as she holds a paint covered paint brush. “Me?” She jumps to her feet, pushing past the adults to get right in Angus's face. “I didn’t see you!”

“Stevie,” Julia says. “What are you still doing here?”

“I guess you weren’t quite listening to me,” Angus says as Stevie scurries over, a pout thick on her lips. “I said that you almost caught me, implying that you didn’t.”

Stevie’s hands are tights fists. “I’m gonna—”

“No you’re not.” Magnus scoops Stevie into his arms, standing as he throws her over his shoulder. She makes an indigent noise, feet kicks his chest and hands pounding his back. “Stevie, what did I say about not being a bully?”

“He snuck onto the ship!”

“And we told you to go to your room.” Magnus shakes his head, starting for the door. With his back turned, they can now see the sheer frustration on Stevie’s face as she knocks her hands on his back.

“This isn’t fair!” she shouts. “I can help!”

“This is something for the adults to handle.”

“He’s also a kid!"

“If I may interject?" Angus adjusts his glasses, giving Stevie and moment to calm down and listen. “I think this may perhaps be less a matter of age, but rather maturity.”

Taako snickers. “Holy shit, did you just pull the immature card?”

“Taako,” Lucretia admonishes.

Stevie scowls and raises her middle finger. “Fuck off!”

“ _Stevie_!”

Ever patient, Angus waits with knees pressing together as the adults deal with this new problem. He pays attention to how Magnus carries Stevie out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a noticeable change in his demeanor. Even when fighting an eldritch being in charge of the realm’s only interdimensional superstore, Magnus never looked this frustrated. Julia was even more frustrated, having turned in her chair to whisper a few things to Lucretia. Davenport is perhaps the most frustrated of all, tapping his fingers on the crook of his arms as he waits for everyone to remember why they’re here.

Angus knows he’s under some kind of speaking curse right now. He wonders if mentioning so will make things a lot easier for everyone involved.

“Okay, okay.” Magnus rubs his neck, a sigh on his lips. “Where are we even at?”

Agnus gives them a benign look. “We were discussing how you suppress memories and whether my theory was correct or not.”

Magnus doesn’t look for any indication of what to say, just throwing his shoulders into a shrug with a, “Close enough, bud.”

Davenport clears his throat as Julia says, “Magnus.”

“What? He did his homework!”

“Ahem.” Angus straightens his back. “If you suppressed memories—information—then I’m sorry, but I can’t consider any of you to be the good guys.”

“Huh?” Merle says.

“Withholding information is an act of terror. You realize that, right? Only the bad guys try to hide the truth.”

Taako rolls his eye. “And where’d you learn that?”

“Books.”

“Uh-huh,” Taako says.

“My _Caleb Cleveland_ novels.”

Lucretia almost groans. “Angus—those are children’s novels. I’m sure they’re more than suitable for reading, but this is a very delicate issue.”

Angus sets his brow. “So you support censorship?”

Everyone groans.

“Dav…” The captain stops himself, a vein popping on his forehead as he turns his face away.

“I wish it was that simple.” Lucretia approaches him, standing over him for a long moment. Then, carefully, she kneels, trying to make her tall frame seem smaller. “If you have to know, we only erased those memories because the knowledge of what we had created was causing people to seek them out. Knowing was killing the world.” Her eyes are steady, never hesitating to meet his. Angus tries to keep her gaze, but the soft music of her voice makes his cheeks flush until he has to look away. "Angus. Do you really think we're bad people?"

He hesitates. "I... I'm still considering the evidence."

Lucretia nods, giving him a second. He was strung together with pride. Something about their conservation was hurting his ego, though Lucretia can't tell what. "Angus, you figured us out," she says. "You solved your mystery. And now we need to get you home.”

Angus presses his lips. His grabs the fabric of his shorts, bunching it into tight fistfuls.

“Angus.”

“I don’t have one,” he mutters. “Pedantically, I’m what’s referred to as an emancipated youth.”

Lucretia turns, wide eyes aimed at her family. Davenport’s shoulders are tense, and Merle’s watching him to see what he does. Taako’s is staring at the far corner of the room, fingers drumming on the kitchen counter. Lucretia finds herself between a silent argument between Magnus and Julia, the two making faces and shaking heads in a tense back and forth. Lucretia knows them well enough to interpret their stances—neither want to leave Angus alone, but Magnus keeps jerking his chin in the direction of Stevie’s room while Julia gives him a frustrated frown.

When Lucretia faces Angus again, he’s still staring at his lap. Waiting.

Lucretia takes a deep breath. “You know we’re not from around here. We’re from a universe far, far away from here. And we spent a hundred years trying to stop the thing that destroyed our home. The relics were a bandaid. And, it’s not working any more. We need to fix everything before midsummer. That’s when the Hunger will come, and that’s when this world will end again. We still have five more relics to find and not a lot of time to do it. Do you think you can help us?”

“Davenport!" Davenport snaps.

She returns to her feet. “You have to admit that we’re not doing that hot right now, captain. We need to do better, and we don’t have Barry to help us. I think it’s time we stop being insular. It’s his world too. If he can help, why can’t he?”

Davenport groans. “Dav-en—”

“He’ll be my responsibility. I’ll keep watch over him.”

From behind everyone, Taako snorts. “He’s not a pet, Lucy.”

“You—you really want me to stay?” Angus looks up at her, eyes wide in sheer awe. For once, he’s speechless, stopping and starting until he just gives her a large grin and enthusiastic nod.

Lucretia looks down at him and smiles.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Julia says. She gives Davenport a sideways glance. A dare. “I think we can put something together—we have to have an extra room somewhere.”

Merle strokes his beard. “We already had to rearrange everything for one kid. I don’t think we can do it a second time.”

“Yeah,” Taako huffs. “ _Rearrange._ That’s a word for it.”

“Hey, we’ll make it work.” Magnus crosses his arms over his chest. “We’re a family.”

“Family?” Angus gasps.

“Oh my god,” Taako and Julia say, but with different meanings. Thy whip towards each other with harsh, mutual glares.

Lucretia tilts her chin upwards, waiting for Davenport to indicate his thoughts. His face is heated, eye flipping from Angus’s drenching hope to Lucretia’s resolute stare. He starts to open his mouth, but he doesn’t even let the first syllable of his name slip out. He shakes his head and waves his arms in the air, as if to shed himself of any authority. Then he marches out, back curved with an invisible weight.

In his wake, the kitchen is silent.

Merle sighs. “Shit…” He tugs on his beard, pensive. “Listen—he’s going through something. I’ll try to get through to him.”

Taako leans into the counter, trying for a cocky visage. “Congratulations. Not sure what exactly you achieved here, but you did it.”

Julia groans. “You’re such an ass.”

He moves towards the door, languid and loose. “Not my ass on the line.”

“Taako.” Lucretia smiles. “I expect some gay solidary.”

“For what?”

“To help me help Angus.”

“Nope.” Taako holds his hands in the air, shaking his head as he storms out. “Nope, nope, nope, nope—Taako’s out!”

Lucretia waits until the echoes of his feet leave the hallway to turn back at Angus. He still seems a bit dazed, struggling to smooth his shorts to pristine condition. He fixes his cap, organizes his boyish curls, and gives her his biggest smile. “Thank you, Miss Lucretia. I—I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

Her smile is soft. “Miss Lucretia was my mother. Just call me Lucy.”

“Alright, ma’am!”

* * *

Bane takes a long sip of his decaf coffee, the aroma soothing the jitter in his calloused knuckles. The Neverwinter militia headquarters is both bigger and yet just as bustling as the one in Goldcliff, brimming with an endless rapid of crime and justice. Anyone else in his position would note that, officially, Neverwinter’s crime rate is lower than Goldcliff’s, but the governor of Goldcliff is harder on crime. Despite his push to deal with the _Midsummer Project,_ Sterling is notably prone to pretending that crime is simply not a problem for his lands.

At the very thought of what his job is supposed to be, Bane reads through the letter in his hand one more time. Addressed to him, sent from Killian. They found the Animus Bell. The apartment had been lost and they were permanently relocating to the Miller Labs. She’ll be going with Leon to Goldcliff to clean up what they can, but after that they were going to stay out of Goldcliff. Once he was released from his duties in Neverwinter, he needed to come to the lab.

Bane sets his mug aside, folding the letter back up as calmly as possible. He took a team out to Wonderland the other week, only to be met by its ruins. A crowd of dazed adventures—the trap’s past victims—were there, rambling about the ravens perched on the surrounding trees. Bane didn’t know. He did his job, making sure none of the other militia officers found anything that could link back to Killian, Avi, and Ren. All Sterling knows is that a Grand Relic used to be there, but is long gone now.

How much longer can he keep this up? His desk is one of twenty in a conference room converted to an office for all the other captains and sheriffs from Faerun’s various city militias. He knows he’s not smarter than the Sheriff of Rockport, or the Lieutenant of New Armos. One of them will figure him out. When that happens, his career will be over.

As calmly as he can, Bane takes his mug and rises to his feet. He walks to the trashcan in the corner, throwing the letter inside and pouring his coffee on top of it.

“Bad brew?” a portly captain from the western coasts asks.

“Sure,” Bane replies. The ink bleeds, the letter turning illegible.

The portly man shrugs. “Makes sense. Things happen to go wrong with you.”

Bane bites the inside of his cheek, ignoring the portly captain’s last cackling remark before walking away. There’s been eyes on his back ever since the night he let Magnus Burnsides go. One of his subordinating officers reported him to one of the higher ups, and Bane had to submit his side of the story. According to the records, he let Burnsides go due to a potential controversy over the conduct of his officers and on the credit of him being a well-known hero. It’s a lame excuse and everyone knows it.

Bane takes his empty mug back to his desk, surrounded by every other officer looking to bring the Red Robes in. The moment one of them is captured, the Red Robes have the power to bring Bane and the rest of his group down with them. Bane knows he’s going to crash, but the last thing he wants is to feel the burn.

* * *

Leon snores like a trumpet. Killian wants to ignore him—it’s a long train ride to Goldcliff, and she brought a book to pass the time, but the longer his snores tear through the air like a knife through itchy cloth, the more Killian is sure she’s going to lose it. The tight confines of the little sleeper chamber, complete with two thin cots on wire frames, is the perfect echo chamber of his gnarly noise. With a huff, she stows her book into her bag and stands. “Watch our stuff,” she tells the sleeping gnome, one that told Ren he was going to examine her umbra staff during the trip. Of course, the umbrella is sitting by his feet, wrapped in brown paper and tied off with string. Leon startles when her tossed bag lands next to his face, but with the smacking of lips and half-conscious slew of words, he’s back to being the loudest sleeper ever.

This train isn’t as ornate as the Rockport Limited, but Killian thinks it’s still fairly nice. She’s more comfortable here than in the lavish display of wealth Goldcliff and Lucas’s lab make without thought. The wood paneling is durable, but nice. The carpeted floors worn, but functional. As she wanders down the line of sleeper cars, the attendant she runs into is nice enough to point her in the direction of the dining car. She has to go down a couple of more cars, and each time she opens the door of one to step into the narrow metal walkway connecting the train together, she gets a glimpse of the woodsy landscape that makes up the northwestern regions of Faerun. The brisk autumn air fills her lungs with nostalgia until her chest hurts.

It hits her, sometimes, how little time has passed. She can still count on both hands how long she’s been on this quest to bring the reign of the Grand Relics to an end. It feels like it’s been much longer, but also much shorter. They’ve made more strides in this year alone that she has when she first joined up with—

She opens the door to the dining car, feeling her brain sputter. Someone. Didn’t she join up with someone? She had been just scraping out of her teen years, adventuring around with _someone_. They were older, but not her uncle. She left her uncle to do this adventuring work. She knows she eventually ran into Lucas, but he’s younger than her. Johann was afterwards, but by then Bane, Leon, and Avi were also in the picture. There was someone else, from a long time ago.

They were nice. And they cared so much.

“Wow. You look _out_ of it.” A small table sits shoved in the car’s corner, where an older man and a dragonborn woman nurse cups of something frothy. Every tooth in the dragonborn woman’s mouth shine in a crooked grin as she stands, extending a blue-scaled hand. At least, Killian thinks she’s blue. Her vision only shows her various shades of gray. “Did you just suddenly realize you’re on another train?”

Killian nearly laughs. “Oh my god. I know you.” She fumbles to get her hand into a shake, which is embarrassing since her hand hadn’t even been doing anything. When she does get her hand into Carey’s, she realizes too late that her palm is super sweaty. “Oh god.” She yanks her hand away, hastily wiping it on her pants leg. “That was super gross. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, no. It’s okay. My scales are also super gross right now.” Carey picks at her hand, peeling back a thin layer of blue. “I’m like shedding right now and everything, and I’m just getting it everywhere.”

“It’s cute,” Killian says.

Carey tilts her head to the side. “You think me shedding is cute?”

Killian can feel her face deepen a few shades. “Aren’t we supposed to hate each other?”

“Huh?”

“You and I—back at the train! And Fantasy Costco! You were one-hundred-percent not on my side.”

She hisses, tugging at the collar of her tunic. “ _Yeah_ , but I had bills to pay and living in Neverwinter isn’t cheap…”

Killian pinches her nose. “Yeah, well. Whatever. It was nice seeing you.”

She makes it three steps towards the mini-bar on the opposite end when Carey slides in front of her. “Okay, um, let me buy you a drink then. As a big sorry for kicking your ass.”

Killian stares down at her, feeling a newfound wave of heat travel from her face and down her neck. She coughs, forcing her eyes away. “You didn’t kick my ass.”

“ _Mmm,_ no. I’m pretty sure I did.”

This time, when she stares for the bar again, Carey just trails after her, a sly look on her face. “I think I would remember getting my ass kicked by…” She bites her tongue.

Carey wags her brows, her toothed tongue slithering out from between her lips. “By what?”

Killian looks away, unable to control how her hand bangs on the bar’s counter. Her voice squeaking high in the recesses of her head. “ _One soda please_.”

Carey slides a few copper pieces to the bartender. “I got it.”

When the dewy glass of soda slides into her open hand, Killian downs the whole thing in one gulp. It’s icy, tasting of a sickly sweet orange. The fizzle hurts her mouth a little, but when she finishes, she sighs and wipes her mouth. Cooled off, she gives Carey an askance glance. Then: “Oh god, you just bought my drink.”

Carey shrugs. “Which means apology received.”

She frowns, but it’s half-hearted. “Damn, you’re sly.”

“I wouldn’t be a rogue if I wasn’t.”

Killian snorts. “Okay, okay. Sure. So we’re friends now.”

Carey leans into the counter, resting her chin on her hand. “Friends?”

“Two gals being pals.”

Her clawed-hand goes to her chest. “We’re going so fast. At least ask a girl to dinner first.”

Killian waits for the crushing panic to course up through her, demanding she keeps her sights set on nothing but saving the world. But while her heart hammers hard in her chest like the quick rapt of a marching band drum, she doesn’t feel like she needs to push away. Logically, she knows she needs to focus on her work so that she can have a future where she can mess around and be with any girl she likes, but that feels distant, somewhere far off on the horizon. Circling a finger around the rim of her cup, Killian dares to look in Carey’s eyes. She can’t remember what color they’re supposed to be, but most dragonborns have yellow eyes. Yellow, like sunflowers. “Where’d you get off?”

Finally, she sees Carey startle. “Me?” Her tail twitches.

“Yeah.” It takes all her effort to maintain eye contact, to let her gaze communicate something she’s not sure she can say aloud. “Maybe we’re going to the same place.”

“Well, that’s not really something I’ve got planned.” She jerks her chin towards the table at the corner where her drink sits abandoned with the older man. “I’m sticking around him for a bit. Seeing where he goes and stuff.”

Killian’s brow furrows. “Who’s he?"

“Well…” Carey sighs. “You guys know everything about this whole relic business. He’s kind of going around, just keeping a record of everything. Like, interviews and such. He told me he got messed up by one of them. This cup thing.”

His stetson is tipped downward, framing his face as he writes a few words into a worn leather-bound diary. Killian memorizes his face, promising herself to remember enough detail for Ren to maybe identify later. “And he’s just writing it down?”

“Everyone has their own form of therapy.”

Killian quirks a brow. “Something tells me you’re not one hundred percent doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

Her grin shows just enough teeth that she’s charming without being threatening. “Candlenights is next month. I gotta afford presents.”

Leaning down, Killian gets her face as close as she dares. “I better not catch you doing anything you shouldn’t be.”

“Can’t promise.” Carey meets her half way. “You’d be stupid to trust a rogue.” This close, Killian can see where her shedding scales have started to flake. “But I think I wouldn’t mind running into you again. You can trust me on that.”

* * *

Barry stares at his image in the mirror. The electric lights hanging from the ceiling wash out his skin, making him seem even paler than he was before. At least, he wants to believe it’s because of the lights. He can hear his mother’s voice in the back of his head, scolding him for not getting enough sunlight. To be kissed by the fated lover’s rays is to be blessed. You are not the scorned moon, you cannot shy away from the day.

But, really, it’s not his fault he’s so pale. He has to remember that as Daniel trims back his mud-colored hair, reigning his mullet back into something respectable. There’s little patches of stubble on his skin of where he needs to shave, but he thinks he doesn’t have to worry about it too much. If he grows a mustache, he grows a mustache. Even with the significant age difference, Magnus has always beaten him in the facial hair department.

Daniel brushes away the stray hairs with a tender paw, humming as he studies his work. “Well, Doctor Bluejeans?” he says. “Do you like it?”

Barry tilts his chin towards the bugbear, a poor creature forced into servitude because Lucas doesn’t quite understand the defined limits of ethical science. His heart rings with a sad note of pity, but at least that pity isn’t being pointed at himself any longer. “It’s great.”

They’ve given him a wheelchair. Barry’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about that, or what the gesture is supposed to represent. Are his captors trying to make peace with him in their own bizarre way, or this a trick to lull him onto their side? Did his utter breakdown in the face of Lucas and the umbrastaff pull at their heartstrings until basic human decency suddenly had meaning for them once again? Barry doesn’t know. He’s not even sure if he likes being able to go about the Miller Labs as he pleases. Every corner tugs at a memory that points him back to Maureen and the Cosmoscope, to his inability to see anything beyond himself. When he wanders through the collection of domes, Daniel supervising him like a helpful babysitter, he sometimes runs into Johann or Killian and receives nothing but a cold shoulder. He’s locked into a room again, stuck to a bed. The shapes are just different this time.

Through the windows, Barry can tell it’s a blustery autumn day. The last of the gold-color leaves are blowing off the thin trees lining the lake shores. Most of the woods are naked, threadbare shapes in the distance. Despite his family name, Barry hates the cold but he would love to feel some semblance of real air on his cheeks. “Let’s go to the greenhouse,” he says, as if that’s not where he’s been spending most of his days. Locked in a case of glass, artificially balmy air drawing sweat to his skin.

Daniel pushes the wheelchair down the hall, pausing only to press a few buttons so that each airlock in their way will open. Barry sighs and resigns himself to his fate.

“Hey!” Barry turns in his chair, barely seeing the end of Ren’s silver braid around the bulk of Daniel’s body. When she skirts around Daniel, he can see the obnoxious pair of star-shaped sunglasses sitting over the piece of cloth around her eye sockets. There’s no umbrastaff tied to her belt. Instead, she uses a cane to help her figure out where she’s going. “This is Barry and—” She reaches out a hand and pets Daniel’s arm. “Jamie?”

“Daniel.”

“Right.” Her ear twitches towards the hallway. “Is the Brat-Bot still chasing after me?”

Barry leans over the side of his chair, looking down the empty hallway. “I don’t see anything there…”

She sighs. “Thank the gods.”

“Are you perhaps avoiding Lucas, Miss Mol'diira?” Daniel asks.

“Correct-o un-do,” Ren says. “Thank you for noticing.”

Barry couldn’t hold back his snort even if he wanted to.

She puts her hands on her hips, a giant grin on her face. “Oh, you think this is funny? You don’t have a teenage human pining after you.”

“I actually once was the dumb human pining over an elf,” Barry says. “I mean, I was in like my forties, but you know. She was still at least a hundred years older than me. I’m still in with the kids.”

“Oh, really? And how did that end for you?”

Barry raises his hand, showing off the glint of his wedding ring with a tight smile. When Ren just rolls her neck and flex the fingers around her cane, he feels his cheeks blush. “Um.” He coughs. “We got married.”

Her shoulders ease, ears flickering downwards. “You were married?”

“Am.” The thought makes his heart wrestle with guilt. “She’s… well, she’s somewhere.”

For a moment, all Ren does is bounce her weight between her feet. Her mouth twists. “Are you doing anything right now? I guarantee you whatever it is, it’s not going to be as entertaining as what I got in mind.”

Barry shrugs, then remembers he needs to vocalize. “Yeah. Let’s go for it.”

“Okay. Great.” She nods, seemingly looking up and down both directions of the hallway. “Hey, uh, Daniel? Which way to the third lab?”

With a hearty laugh, Daniel leads them from the pedestrian areas of the labs. Ren keeps an even pace, letting a short silence settle over them. “So.” She makes a face as if physically pained by the awkward note in her tone. “You’re married?”

Barry takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m married.”

“Okay, cool. Um, I’ve been thinking. I haven’t been around Taako in years, not since...” She regains her composure before she can lose it, as if she has to reorder a few books in her minds before she can continue. “Not since he saved me. And, just very slowly, I’ve putting together this big picture of who he is. And, really, who you are. So, neither of you are from here?”

Barry looks down at his hands, glad that she can’t see the emotions passing over his face. In all likelihood, this is nothing more than recon. A thinly veiled attempt to learn more about him and his family. But more than anything, he doesn’t want it to be. He wants a friend, or just some semblance of one. He wishes he could just close his eyes and imagine having some kind of companionship with, really, _anyone_ _._ He’s been so, so lonely.

But he has duties. He needs to keep his friends safe. He needs to make these people understand that they aren’t the bad guys.

“I mean, I told Avi once and he didn’t believe me,” Barry says.

“Well he didn’t tell me,” Ren says. “Just try me. We all know he’s kinda an idiot.”

“We’re from a planar system that’s technically in an alternate reality different from this one.”

“Yeah.” She nods. “That’s kinda utter bullshit.”

“It’s not like it’s a complete mirror.” The kind hallways meant to please visitors changes to the cold indifference of the lab facilities. The moment the airway opens before them, a gust of cooler air smacks Barry’s face, making a pattern of goosebumps etch down his arms. “People and locations rarely ever repeat, barring a few notable exceptions. I’ve never ran into an alternate reality version of myself, and I don’t think I ever will. Everything’s so different everywhere we go, it feels more like how you’d think space travel will go.”

“Have you traveled through space too?”

“Me personally? No. But I remember watching moving scrolls of the first moon landing on my home plane, though.”

“Moving scrolls?”

He grimaces. “It’s—they’re, uh, they’re like... honestly, I’m not sure where to start with them.”

Ren laughs. “I mean, we can go back to the really important thing here. Like, space travel? Walking on the moon? That’s something straight out of a bard’s song!”

He shrugs again. “Yeah, it was pretty cool. You’ll probably see it happen in your life time, though. My plane wasn’t too far ahead technology-wise.”

“Still. It just sounds incredible.”

Barry smirks. “You know, it almost didn’t happen. When I was growing up, there was a lot of superstition that made everyone scared. I remember—my grand-dad used to say it a lot. We crossed the gods so we deserved whatever bad shit happened to us.”

“You found a way to go to the moon and then complained about it.”

“I mean it’s, uh—it’s a lot more complicated than that. There’s like this whole mythos surrounding the moon in particular.” When she doesn’t say anything, Barry takes it as his cue to sigh and elaborate. “Okay, um, it’s like this story that’s passed every Solar New Year. The two suns in the sky were lovers, but the smaller one had an affair with a mortal woman. She ended up being the victim of vengeful gods and got herself turned into the moon, doomed to be forever alone as she chased after her boyfriend.”

He knows the legend by rote— even all the smaller details he doesn’t say a loud. The names of the gods, how the lovers’ affair had been revealed. The two suns and the scorned lover. Barry remembers wearing the layers of clothes fitting of his social status, drowning under the Hallwinter crest as he watched an opulent opera of the myth. The shift in his posture, a pair of opera spectacles pressed over his glasses as he tried to follow the archaic Elvish singing. He remembers wearing a simple pair of jeans, using a different name and bearing the sigil of the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration, watching a small actor’s guild perform in plain clothes. He can still feel the alcohol in his veins, the laughter rising up his throat at every raunchy joke. He can even recall a quiet night in the _Starblaster,_ everyone gathered in the common room as Davenport calmly sang the poem version they all had to memorize in the fourth grade:

_Oh high in the sky the Lunar Lady_

_Scorned are you by the daily_

_A sickly silver in your malaise_

_For your love only comes by day_

“Everyone was convinced going to the moon would be bad luck,” Barry says. “Any time anything bad happened afterwards, it was because we went onto the goddamn moon.”

Ren laughs. It is funny. Barry knows it is. But she can’t trace how Tusolia pushing the boundaries of science led to tensions with a nearby nation, how that lead to the disputes over the ownership of the Silver Sea Isles, and how disputes always lead to…

The door to the third lab’s observation room slides open. A comfortable set of chairs are arranged next to a kettle magicked to never run out of hot water. Johann is perched on the only table, a shabby-looking violin sitting on his lap. He pulls his mug away from his mouth when they walk in, raising a brow at Barry. “Hey,” Johann sets his mug aside, picking his bow from where it had been set aside. “Yo, Ren. Since when was this a party?”

She shrugs before tapping the end of her cane into the chairs, trying to figure out how to navigate around them. Barry thinks no one showed her how to use it properly. He’s tempted to ask her why she doesn’t echolocate her way around, but that might be something that elves and drows can’t do on this plane. He’ll have to ask Julia when he gets the chance. “The more, the merrier,” she says, only looking annoyed for a moment when Daniel takes pity and helps her take a set. He says something about making her some tea, and she twists her mouth at that. “Plus, Avi being annoyed is always hilarious to watch.”

Barry pushes the wheels of his wheelchair, bringing himself up to the long window on the wall. He can see straight into the third lab where the frame of a battlewagon sits in the center. Barry and the Raven are at a chalkboard, bickering over a set of numbers surrounding a crude drawing of an engine. Every time he sees Avi, Barry feels the punch of what his bell did. Then he feels bad for not feeling that same well of guilt for Ren.

“Barry was just telling me this super cool story about the moon,” Ren says.

Johann doesn’t look up from his violin, tucking it under his chin as he starts playing a few notes. Barry feels like his portwine stain used to be smaller. Maybe it morphed with a bruise. He wants to ask, but he knows it’ll be rude. “Wow.”

“You’re in a bad mood,” Ren says.

“I’m always like this.” The music is quiet, barely competing with the song forever pumping through the mounted horns in every room.

“You’re usually dour. This is downright moody.”

“Wow, really?” He plays a sharp note. “What gave you that idea?”

“I can leave,” Barry says. Johann and Ren look at him, each sporting a different type of surprise. “I mean, I can just always—”

“No, stay.” Ren pauses, accepting her mug of tea from Daniel with a gracious smile. “Johann’s just forever emotionally constipated.”

Johann scowls. “Am not.” Barry watches him look through the glass, watching as Avi starts doing a math problem on the board, only to have the Raven steal the chalk from his hands to make corrections. His mouth quivers before he shakes it away. “I just want to make fun of Avi. Is that, like, too much to ask?”

“Why?” Barry scrutinizes the younger half-elf. “I mean, I don’t know how out of sync you are with your emotions, but I think you just have a crush on him.”

For once, Johann misses a note. The bow screeches on the violin strings, his eyes wide as his body freezes in place. Ren breaks into a fit of laughter, nearly knocking her mug over as she clutches her stomach. “Oh my god,” she says between breaths. “Holy—he nailed it! Got it in one!”

Barry can feel his blush blare hot on his skin. “I did?”

The tips of Johann’s ears are a bright red, his eyes staring at the floor as he looks one second away from exploding.

“Totally.” Ren crosses her legs, leaning in as if he’s not on the other side of the room. “Word on the street has it that Johann’s been into Avi long before I ever entered the picture.”

“Leon,” Johann says numbly. “Leon is the words.”

“And Avi’s just too dumb to notice.” She leans back into the cushions, the light dancing off her sunglasses. “To be frank, you’re also a total dumbass, Johann.”

Johann shoves his violin onto the table so that he can bury his face in his hands. At least, he tries to. He doesn’t let go of his bow, and he doesn’t seem to feel it digging into his cheek. “I thought he had a thing for Brian. Everyone had a thing for Brian.”

Ren thinks it over. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

Barry scratches his neck. “Do you, uh… listen, I’m not an authority on this…”

“You should listen to his advice,” Ren says. “He’s married.”

The tips of Johann’s short ears get brighter as he hides his face even more. He says something, but his palms muffle it.

“Like, I’m not one to really speak. I had a crush on my wife for, like, fifty years before I ever tried making a move.” From the corner of his eye, he can see Ren trying to figure out the math. He should clarify, lest she thinks everything he said before was a lie, but he’s not sure if he wants to get into the technicalities of his own age just yet. “Just—I was lucky. I had time to wait for that special moment where everything would just click into place by itself. I don’t think you guys have that.” He glances at the window, catching sight of the gray streaking Avi’s black ponytail. “And I’m sorry for that. I think you’re just going to have to make that moment happen yourself.”

Johann lifts his face. His blush is so deep, it’s hard to see where his birthmark starts and ends. “Yeah? Well. I, like, didn’t ask you.”

There’s venom in his voice, but it’s weak. Barry twists his ring, looking away with a sad shake of the head.

Energy jolts through Johann. “And you know what? Back at the warehouse? I didn’t ask you to do any of that.”

“Huh?”

“That whole dramatic moment where you spouted out your identity. That was stupid. I was going to be fine.” With that, he picks up his instrument and jams it back under his chin, already starting on a new melody.

Barry’s seen Johann be passive aggressive, mostly on the receiving end, but he’s never had such pointed bitterness stabbed directly into him. It’s such a break from how he thought Johann was like. When he looks back at Ren, even she seems shocked by it. Her mouth is hanging open, suspended in space as if frozen. “I didn’t—did you really save him?”

The question is directed at him. “I did?” It hits him. Of course he did. There was that haunting moment when Johann was being strapped to the chair, a metal mask about to be chained to his head. “Hold on. I did the right thing and you’re mad about it?”

Johann doesn’t say anything. His hand vibrates one of the strings, making a wavering but tense note. But as sharp as it is, it melts into a kinder, softer melody. He sways his shoulder to it, eyelids drooping as if mesmerized. When he looks at Barry, honesty colors his irises. Barry expects to see a spark of anger, but finds only confusion. Harrowing confusion that leaves him lonelier than ever. His music matches, melting into echoing notes that makes Barry feel small.

Barry doesn’t smile. This isn’t anything worth smiling about. But his look is a little kinder, understanding pulling his lips tight. If he was in Johann’s position, he would probably think the same way.

He leans back in his seat, Johann’s song filling the silence.

On the other side of the mirror, the Raven is holding a mug of coffee, a frown thick on her face as a frustrated Avi points aggressively at the board.

“I bet she’s going to pour the coffee on him,” Barry says.

A moment later, she dumps her mug over his head.

Not once faltering in song, Johann snickers.

* * *

A bottle of wine in one hand, a deck of tarot cards in another, Merle pushes open the door to Davenport’s office. There’s already a few words hanging off his lips, an offer to play a few rounds and relax, but they end the moment Merle registers exactly what Davenport is doing. The carpet behind his desk is pushed back, the door of the floor safe lying open. The Oculus sits on Davenport’s face, almost concealing a startled look as he jerks his knees into the desk. _Bang_. He hisses, and Merle sees the second thing wrong.

Davenport has two hands again, a sharp scar circling his wrist where the flesh had been restored. Merle stares for a long moment, mouth wide. “Dav, is that—”

The hand shrivels, the skin turning into a rotting black. Davenport’s face is stony as his new hand decays. Mechanically, he holds it over the waste basket by his desk. Like a broken twig, it breaks and falls off, joining a growing pile of desecrated limbs.

Silence that burns like a red hot poker fills the office as Davenport pulls off his family’s heirloom with a sigh. Merle starts and stops, searching for the right word to say. Finally, he huffs. “Well. What the hell was that?”

Davenport refuses to meet his eyes, taking one of the books at the corner of his desk. A piece of scrap paper marks off a page. After a quick peruse, Davenport slides it towards Merle. The dwarf waddles the last few steps to the desk, humming as he looks down at the page. It’s an entry to one of Lucretia’s more recent journals, listing the properties of Barry’s bell. Her writing is in a sophisticated blue ink, but circled in a scratchy black: _The bell is capable of creating, manipulating, and breaking bonds_ _._

“Okay. I knew that. Doesn’t really explain the hand collection you got going there, Gomez Addams.”

Taking the book back, Davenport flips to a new page and holds it out. This time, it’s an account of the battle at Fantasy Costco, of the sensation of Lucretia having her face torn apart then pieced back together. Merle puzzles over this for a few minutes, listening to Davenport lean back in his chair and stare out the window in faux ease. “Okay, so you wanted to use the monocle to fix your hand and it didn’t work like it did last time.”

Davenport nods.

“Why? Shouldn’t—shouldn’t that work?”

Again, the book is flipped to a new page, this one discussing their efforts to teach Davenport sign language. The scratchy ink is back, this time underline a sentence towards the end of the account: _It took_ _all of my strength to tell the captain what I have been fearing—that the Wonderland elves had used the bell not to destroy his bonds to his ability to talk, but to language itself. Taako theorized out loud that the condition of bonds spread, that adding a new bond to one that is already broken will cause the fresher bond to break as well._

Merle can feel the information trickle into his brain, though he’s not sure if his mind is truly managing to string the various excerpts into Davenport’s intentions or if he’s just making a bigger mess of things. But after a few minutes, he can feel his partner’s impatience rising. “So…” He starts carefully, stealing glances for a sign that he’s going in the wrong direction. “We can’t use the monocle to fix your hand because the bonds to your hand is broken and nothing we stick there is gonna last.”

Davenport nods, but he doesn’t relax. The tension sits ridged on his shoulders, brows furrow. Head tilted away, Merle can’t see his good eye. A worn eyepatch conceals the one he lost—a bulky black to mask the face.

Merle grins. “Well wasn’t so hard. I think we got a good back and forth going on there.”

The gnome kicks his chair into a spin, turning his back to Merle.

He sighs. “It was a joke, Dav. You can’t wallow forever.”

Silence.

Merle pulls up one of the chairs, making sure to place the bottle of wine on the desk with an audible _clunk._ “Can you do me a favor? Let’s just play a few games together. You don’t have to say anything. You didn’t lose—you can still play, so why not?” Another deafening moment passes, so long and torturous that Merle can feel his skin crawl. The late-day sunlight strikes through the blinds on the window, making orange lines across the desk. Merle grumbles, shifting to the side so that he can reach into his pocket. “Okay, okay. I’ll get to the point. I swung by Goldcliff the other day and picked these up for you. Happy early Candlenights.”

The chair turns when he places two palm-sized boxes on the desk. Davenport looks at them from the corner of his eye. For a breath, it’s like all the times Merle’s talked about marriage and Davenport’s said no. But the boxes are bigger than any made for a ring, so gingerly Davenport pulls them closer.

“I’m a shitty healer,” Merle says as Davenport opens them. The first one contains a monocle—less ornate than his family heirloom, but still sophisticated in its simplicity. Davenport takes it off its cushion, running a finger along the smooth gold rim. “The glass is charmed to adjust to your vision. To help you see and everything. I think it’ll help you feel more normal.”

Davenport puts it aside, the tension starting to dissipate. He lifts the lid on a second one, revealing a red cushion that holds a glass eye.

“You don’t have to use any of this. I just thought it might help—”

Davenport all but falls out of his chair, taking both of the boxes with him. Merle watches as he sprints to the decorative mirror on the far wall. He can see a smaller version of himself reflected in the silver, watching as Davenport takes off his eyepatch—

And Merle looks away, humming as he gives his partner privacy.

He hears the steps as the gnome returns to the desk, only looking when he hears the chair creak under Davenport’s weight. The monocle makes him look older, bringing out the sparse specks of gray starting to appear in his mustache. The glass eye matches his real one perfectly, only becoming apparent when one pupil tracks and the other stares blankly ahead. Merle grins. “Hey there, handsome. Come here often?”

Davenport snorts, the smallest of smiles fighting its way onto his face. Leaning over the desk, he places his hand over Merle’s and squeezes. Merle meets his gaze, lips pressed together. They hold the tableau longer than they need to, but even when Davenport lets go and leans back, the warmth is still here.

Should I even say it, Merle wonders as his partner takes the deck of tarot cards and starts shuffling in an awkward affair where he needs the table to lay them on as his hand layers them on top of each other. He knows what he wants to do, but there’s another part that knows what he wants to say.

He clears his throat.

Davenport pauses.

“Dav?” He watches the captain close up again, eyes downcast as the cold sets in, and he nearly screams his frustration. “Dav, I’m not—just hear me out, would ya? I just—I just have something I want to say.”

Davenport’s hand slides a card between his fingers, the image on the front moving too quickly to be seen.

Merle takes a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking. You’re struggling—we can all see it. But you don’t have to carry all this on your own. We’re here to help— _I’m_ here to help. And I know I’m not good at being us, you and me being a thing together, but I want to put the effort in. And if I have to memorize how you change your tone and pitch and stutter and sound out and anything you do to talk—then I will. Dav, I want to. I want to listen to what you have to say. Because it’s important to me. Do you get it?”

Davenport’s head is bowed low, expression hidden. But he nods, trembling. The smallest noise leaves his throat—not his name, but pitched note of a sob fighting to break free. Even now, Merle knows what that means. He hops from his chair and goes to Davenport’s side, giving comfort as soft with silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It has been over a month, but now I am here and back with some semblance of an update. Truth be told, I am not 100% happy with everything in this chapter. There are definitely a few scenes that probably needed another draft, but really badly just wanted to get something out there for you guys to read. Also, in case you didn't see, I finally got off my butt and redid the summary! It's been bugging me for a long time how shoddily put together the original one sounded, so hopefully this one better conveys what this fic is even about. If you have any strong feelings about that (good or bad), feel free to tell me.
> 
> There's going to be one more interlude chapter and then we're going to get back to hunting down the relics. With the holidays and another project, I'm not sure when I'm going to get to it. In the meantime, do give the [extended notes a read.](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/181359696386/northern-migration-chapter-26-notes-preview)
> 
> I'm super sorry for taking so long to update, especially when so many things have been happening. I'm still going to be on tumblr for as long as possible, but I did make a [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/miamaroo) on the off chance something happens. I haven't really gotten the hang of it yet, but feel free to stop by and say hello! Also, I know that I usually use replying to the comments as a way to sort of give a warning that the next update is coming, but I am going to start trying to reply to them in a more timely manner because a lot of the time, I read them right away and I keep on reading them over and over again as I work on the next part. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I do appreciate every and all comments I get, and I just want to better show that to you guys. 
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading! Being able to give you guys a story to enjoy is the best present I could ask for. Have a happy holidays! XOXOXOXXOXO


	27. In Which Taako Witnesses a Purple Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johann and Taako can't connect with others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** There is a very short Stevie and John scene in this chapter. Like always, a brief summary of what happens will be at the end of the chapter.

For a two month mission, a communal bathroom is passable. Two sets of sinks, each with a mirror that conceals a cabinet. Two toilet stalls that offer little privacy, one with a flush louder than the other. The bathroom is shaped like a U, and around the sharp corner are the opened aired showers. Curtains used to separate them, but when the _Starblaster_ went down and Lucretia had to repair it, new shower curtains became an afterthought. Out of the three shower heads, the farthest one has the best combination of water pressure and heat. Unlike his crewmates, Taako has no set showering time, usually deciding to bathe whenever it’s convenient, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get the best shower head on the ship.

When Taako enters the bathroom this evening, he already hears the water running and sees the steam wafting around the corner. A frown is sets in his face when he rounds the bend, deepening when he sees Julia waiting against the wall, dressed in old pajamas with Magnus's old flannel around her shoulders. She stands between him and the final third showerhead. During the years he was gone, someone had installed a new set of shower curtains but only around that one. He can hear feet patter on the tile, the water smacking against the drain.

Julia quirks a brow, but says nothing.

“Hi,” Taako says, aware the one syllable is bordering the fine line towards a sneer. She deserves it. Who just hangs out in a bathroom?

“Hi,” Julia echoes. She gives him an up and down look, brow only getting higher. “Nice robe. Didn’t take you as a robe guy.”

His robe was a threadbare purple disaster, leaving the job of keeping him warm to his fantasy sweatpants and sweater. “Better check yourself then.” He twists his mouth. This is just mind games. Lifting his little basket of toiletries a little higher, he shoves past her and goes for the middle shower head, which has horrible water pressure but can manage to reach the proper levels of skin-scorching hot. He gets as far as untying the sash around his waist when Julia clears her throat.

“Hurry up, Stevie,” she says, voicing rising above the steam.

“Okay!” Her daughter’s voice chirps from behind the show curtain.

Taako almost groans. That explains everything. Hefting his basket back into his hands, he marches back, giving her a glare that lasts until he turns the corner. He makes more noise than necessary, slamming his basket on the ground and stomping his feet—letting Julia know he’s still there, that he’s stubborn enough to not abandon ship just yet. Humming obnoxious tunes, he sits on the sink as he hears the water shut off. The murmur of mother talking to daughter, Stevie’s louder than needed responses.

In less time than Taako expects, he sees Julia usher Stevie around the corner. The girl’s hair is wrapped up in a towel bundled on her head, her pajamas an old t-shirt that looks like it was once Magnus’s. At a second glance, it is Magnus’s—his jersey from when he coached that team of losers decades ago. Julia carries an extra towel and some soap, watching Taako from the corner of her eye as they pass.

Stevie lifts a hand and waves. “Night, Uncle Taako.”

“Yeah,” he says back, looking away.

He waits until the door closes shut behind them to throw his head back and groan. The tiled floor echoes his voice back.

* * *

Chin balanced on hand, Taako leans into the table and watches the scene before him—Angus, trying to heave a stack of books to the chalkboard Lucretia had set up in the kitchen while Stevie blocks his path. Both of them are tiny little twerps, but Stevie rocks onto the tips of her toes, holding the flat of her hand to the tip of her head as she tries to measure herself to Angus. “C’mon,” she whines. “I just wanna check!”

“Please— I have very important work I need to be doing right this moment,” Angus says, trying to look over the topmost book on the stack. His glasses threaten to fall off his nose.

Stevie jams her hand on top of his head, trying to keep him pinned in place. “Stop moving!”

Angus leans over, giving the nearest adult a pleading look. Considering that Lucretia went with Davenport to look for a few documents in his office, that meant Taako. “Um, please sir? A little hand?”

“Yeah!” Stevie crosses her arms over her chest, puffing out her chest in a huff. “You judge. Who’s taller?”

Rolling his eyes, Taako slinks to his feet. “Alright. If it gets you two to shut up already. Get back to back…” Angus puts his books down, making sure to stand with his back as straight as possible as Stevie bounces in her places. Taako circles them like a shark, finger on chin as he hums. “ _Hmm,_ this is a tough one.” They’re fairly close in height, but Taako knows which answer he should give if he wants the max amount of entertainment for the next few days. But when he places his hand on their heads, he realizes he doesn’t even need to lie.

He hides his grin, trying to look pensive as he steeples his fingers over his mouth. “I see.”

Stevie is all but buzz, trying to get her own hand in a position that shows the height difference that she can also see. “Spill it! Who’s taller?”

“There’s no easy way of saying this, but it looks like Angelo here just the _tinniest,_ uh, _slimmest_ bit taller.”

“It’s Angus, sir,” Angus chimes.

Stevie freezes. “ _Huh_? No way!” She twists between him and Angus, frustration building on her face. “But—but—but I’ve always been the tallest in my class!”

Taako shrugs, hissing with false sympathy. “Yeah, but life sucks kid. And, like, isn’t it that girls stop growing first? You’re probably doomed to be a shorty forever while Dangus, uh, is probably gonna be super tall.”

Stevie shoots Angus a harsh glare, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You don’t get to be taller than me.”

At each jab, Angus flinches, adjusting his glasses as he steps back. “I mean, I don’t really get a say in that.”

“You’re, like, the worst.”

Taako sinks back in his chair, relaxing as he watches Angus’s face waver between confusion and genuine hurt. “Um, excuse me? I believe I have been fairly nice to you.”

“You’re like the worst kid I’ve ever met,” Stevie says.

Angus stares at her for a long moment, blinking as he puzzles through his situation. Taako can practically see the math around his head melt away the moment the lightbulb goes off. “Oh, I get it!” Angus grins, pointing a finger up like a real nerd. “You’re jealous I get to help while you’re still grounded.”

Stevie stares.

“Don’t worry,” Angus rambles, reaching for his stacks of books once more. “I’m sure you’ll get the opportunity to help in due time, though I’m not sure where since, while I don’t know you well, I get the sense that you don’t have any particular skills that could aid us—”

Stevie jumps onto him, tackling Angus into his stack of books. The books go flying, Stevie pinning him to the ground with her knees as she rams a few sloppy punches into his face. To his credit, Angus is putting up as best of a fight he can. Keeping a hand over his face to protect it, his other one gropes blindly, eventually finding the front of Stevie’s shirt. In an instant, he flips their positions, only to get Stevie’s foot in the face and her teeth into his arm.

Angus shouts, and the footsteps coming from the hallway quicken. Taako gets a moment to realize he’s also about to be in serious shit when the door slams open, revealing an out-of-breath Lucretia and Davenport. “Stevie! Angus!” She looks around for a moment, before pulling out her wand. Her blue magic surrounds the two kids, and a barrier appears between them, keeping them separate. “What is going on?”

Angus sniffles, massaging his jaw where he’d been kick. A little streak of blood drips from where Stevie had bitten him. “She started it!”

“Did not!” Stevie shouts.

Davenport marches past them both, going straight to where Taako lounges. “Davenport.”

Taako pretends to not feel the chill go up his spine, giving the captain a lazy glance. “What? A couple of brawls build character and all that stuff.”

Davenport glares at him a moment longer, managing to squeeze in an entire lecture about responsibility in a single look. Taako wouldn’t call it impressive. He’s known Davenport a very long time and everyone gets a little predictable after the third decade. That is, unless your best friend of a hundred years disappears. Then you do stuff like get married and get a whole personality revamp.

When the captain turns away, Lucretia is kneeling by Angus, looking over his jaw and cut. Stevie is still by herself, holding her knees close to her chest as she glowers. Davenport marches to her, arms crossed over his chest as he taps his foot. Stevie looks like she’s about to say something, but she only closes her mouth again. “Davenport.”

She makes a face. “Huh?”

His look only becomes sterner. “Davenport.”

“What does that mean?” she whines.

Davenport stands over her for a moment longer. Then he turns and leaves, a bewildered Stevie in his dust.

“Stevie.” Lucretia leaves Angus for a moment, motioning for her to stand. When she does, her aunt grabs her elbow. “You need an attitude adjustment. You can’t be picking fights with Angus or getting in the way of our jobs. And you especially need to be nicer to Davenport. You know he’s going through a hard time right now.”

“But I don’t know what he was saying!” Stevie whines.

“You need to stop being selfish and make an effort,” Lucretia says.

“But—” Stevie groans and stomps her foot. “You don’t get it!”

“I assure you I do. Do I need to bring your parents into this?”

Stevie presses her mouth shut, keeping her eyes on the floor. Between the grinding of her teeth, she spits, “I don’t care.”

Lucretia sighs. “Alright. Let’s go find them then. And Taako, can you also please act your age?”

He startles, having forgotten for a moment that he’s also in hot water. “Yeah? You think one hundred and sixty is old? Give or take a century?” He doesn’t get a reply, ignored in favor of taking Stevie’s arm and dragging her off to wherever the Burnsides are pretending their marriage is not failing.

Angus sits among his stack of books, running his hand over where Stevie had bit him. Lucretia had quickly healed him, not even leaving behind a scar. He releases a long breath that sounds older than he is, frown thick. When he looks up and meets Taako’s eyes, he forces a smile. “I’m alright, sir,” he says. “You don’t need to worry.”

Taako snorts. “Never said I was.”

“I’m just a little useless without my crossbow. It must be so convenient to have magic on hand to just help whenever you need it.” Angus starts gathering his books back up, seemingly back to his default peppiness. “Magic is just such a hard subject to learn on your own—I only have a few cantrips down and I’ve been trying since I was six. I’m definitely going to need to find some sort of wizardly master to teach me magicks and spells and help me become a wizard myself.”

“Huh,” Taako says, deciding he doesn’t really need to pay attention anymore. “Good luck with that.”

* * *

“Do you think I’m selfish?”

John quirks a brow, reaching across the arrangement of soldier figurines to grab his tea cup. The pillow fort under the table is still set up, concealing him and Stevie in a bubble of warmth contrary to the cold winter outside. “Of course not. I think you’re a very caring young lady.” He takes a quick sip, not hiding the way he monitors her face. “What happened? Did someone say something to you?”

Stevie shrugs her shoulders, picking up her woman knight figurine. “So we’re going to go to the Diamond Tooth Mountain to get the power gem?”

John sets his cup aside, rushing to pick his bard back up. “ _Naturally_ ,” he says, deepening his voice a couple of octaves. He has to morph his face to make it work, causing him to exaggerate every facial expression. Stevie snickers. “ _The only one who can save the day is you, Stevie.”_ He gives her a second to really laugh it out, his brow furrowing. “But, really. You can tell me anything Stevie. What happened?”

A punchy huff leaves her as she starts building a stack of pillows into the Diamond Tooth Mountain. There’s nothing to narrate about this part of the legend, so there’s no reason not to answer him. So, she speaks. By the time she’s done, he’s leaning forward—the picture of attentiveness. “And now I’m grounded until States Day or Candlenights,” she finishes. Sudden anger jolts through her, and she can’t resist pushing the final pillow down so hard it smothers the rest of them. “Whatever comes first this year.”

John nods. A beat passes as he really thinks about everything she’s said. “That Angus sounds like he got his just reward. I can’t believe your aunt wasn’t able to see that.”

“Yeah, but he’s _helpful_. Everyone thinks I’m useless.”

He reaches over, plucking the other fine china cup off the tray. “Here. Drink some tea. It’ll help you feel better.”

She grumbles, but nonetheless takes the cup from his hands. After a few times hanging out, he’s figured out how much sugar she likes. The drink sends a soothing warmth down through her. Holding a delicate cup gives her hands something to do that isn’t taking her frustrations out on a pillow.

John smooths a hand over his jaw. “I think it’s their mistake for not seeing how useful you are,” he says. “There’s not much I can do for you, but just know that even if that Angus guy is making things hard for you, I’m always going to be here, right behind you.”

“That’s really cheesy,” Stevie says.

His laugh seems to take even him off guard. “But does it help?”

She has to think about it for a moment. “Yeah, I guess. I just…” She makes a noise from the back of her throat. A sickly feeling billows in her gut. She knows it’s bad, but she can’t translate what it means into words. Her brain swirls at the very idea, leaving her tongue heavy. “I don’t know.”

His blue eyes twinkle as he picks his bard back up. “Here’s a suggestion—be on the lookout for when someone is doing something infuriating and start telling yourself that it all is meaningless. It matters now because it hurts, but it will stop hurting once you realize how insignificant it all is.”

She looks down. “It’s not insignificant.”

“Of course it doesn’t feel that way. Not now. But a lot of adults let themselves get held up by these small, myopic perspectives. You can start looking bigger. And when you do, you’ll see how small Angus really is.”

Stevie smiles.

“Does that sound doable?” John asks.

She hesitates, the second pulled thin like taffy, before nodding. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

* * *

Taako takes the stairs up to the deck, a hand cupping the side of his mouth as he shouts, “Hey, Big Guy! You up here? I found this old bag of moldy, fantasy pop rocks and I dare ya to snort it.” The clashing of blades punctuates his foot hitting the top step, causing him to pause.

Magnus is on the deck, but so is Julia. They drench with sweat under the desert sun, panting heavily as they hold their blades. Magnus is wearing a tunic with the sleeves cut off, while Julia has her red bandana tied to her forehead to keep off the sweat. Magnus takes a moment just long enough to wince, saying, “I’ll pass Taaks. Merle might do it.”

Taako snorts, wearing his sloppy smirk with ease. “You say that now, my good dude, but let me tell you what when the moldy pop rocks call, they—”

“Okay, Jules,” Magnus says, turning away from Taako. “Again.”

Julia rushes forward, raising her sword high in the air. The spring in her prosthetic leg gives her an extra push, allowing her to clash her blade onto Magnus’s with multiplied force. The screeching of metal is loud, both fighters grunting as they contest their strength. Their knees bent, they threaten to ram each other through at any given moment. As impressive as it is, Taako can’t help but to feel his cheeks burn. “Seriously? You’re turning down a dare for—”

A snap—the stress on Julia’s prosthetic leg becoming too much. The metal joint breaks off of the wood, and Julia goes down. Faster than a quicken heart, Magnus pulls his strength away, pushing his sword out of Julia’s way as he catches her blade before it can hit him. Julia is left to crash onto the ground, shouting out when her elbows take the brunt of the force. “Fuck!” she shouts, smacking her hand on the ground.

Magnus squats down, putting the weapons to the side as that he can reach for her. “Are you alright—”

She rolls over on her own, hissing when she sees the damage on her prosthetic leg—irreparable. “Just peachy,” she bites out. “Barely lasted a month. Fantastic woodwork, Burnsides.”

Through his concern, Magnus bristles. “Well sorry for not meeting your standards, _Waxman.”_

Taako turns on his heel, saying what he would consider to be a witty one-liner as he leaves. It’s a shame—he’s sure the only two people in his audience didn’t bother listening.

* * *

Taako buries his face into her pillow, letting out a long scream. To her credit, Lucretia waits until he follows it up with an even longer slew of muffled swears before looking up from her journal. “You’re going to have to say that again in a language I understand,” she says.

Legs and arms sprawled over every inch of Lucretia’s bed, he throws the pillow off and gives her a curt glare. “You speak Elvish.”

“Yeah, I do.” The pale blue glow of Fischer and Junior’s tank makes her headscarf look gray, the pattern of dots and lines a muted shade. Her tone matches the rigid tranquility that comes with being in her room. “Newsflash asshole—we’ve been speaking Elvish to each other this entire goddamn time.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Say what?” he says, consciously speaking his native tongue.

Without missing a beat, she replies, “I said we’ve been speaking in Elvish since you stormed in here—” She looks at the clock on her wall. “—three hours ago.”

He switches tactics. “Don’t you have a child to feed?”

“I understand Orcish too,” she replies, matching his language-switch perfectly. “And Angus isn’t a pet.” She reverts back to Common. “I’m just saying. This whole meltdown you’re having right now will go a lot faster if you’d just be honest about your feelings.”

“I am being honest!” Taako swipes a wooden duck painted to resemble her off the corner of her crowded desk, tossing it into the air before catching it. “Apparently, everything falls apart when I’m not around. Like I leave for, what? A decade? And Magnus straight up goes and marries the biggest bitch in the—”

Lucretia smacks a book on his forehead—not hard enough to hurt, just startling enough to make him swear and clasp his hands over his forehead. Not caught, the thrown wooden duck crashes onto his face a moment later, causing him to yelp. “Fuck—Lucy! What was that for?”

“You’re being an ass.”

“Am not!”

“Julia’s going through a rough time right now. Of course she’s going to be a little hard to be around. And let’s not forget that you haven’t necessarily endeared yourself to her yet.” She leans back in her desk chair. “Truth be told, you haven’t really endeared yourself to anyone here.”

He snaps upright. “I shouldn’t have to! I’ve been here since numeral _uno._ She’s…” He waves a hand around.

Lucretia looks less than impressed. “Superfluous?”

“Nothing. Compared to everything else, she’s nothing. She’s just taking up space.”

The voidfish make a low, howling song. They don’t float close enough to the tank to be clearly seen, but their shadowy shapes can be made out into a swirling dance in the distance. “I get it.” Lucretia leans forward. “We were all we had of each other for a really long time. And, truth be told, we were all a little set back at first when Magnus wanted to incorporate someone new into our dynamic. I’ll even admit that it hurt going from being Magnus’s number one to being second to someone he had met what felt like a second ago. But a decade isn’t a small amount of time. Magnus and I—we’re humans. If we’re lucky, that’s a tenth of the time we have in this life.” Taako shifts, stiff as her words fall. His nails scratching the paint on the wood duck. “Magnus learned better than the rest of us how to move on and have a life beyond our mission. Truthfully, I think you need to learn something from that, Taak—”

The wooden duck flies straight to her face. Squeaking, Lucretia catches it, wincing in anticipation of the worst. Taako stares at the corner of her room, drumming his fingers at his knees. His mouth moves with the need to say something, and as Lucretia recomposes herself, she has a moment to wonder if she should push him to speak up, but Taako beats her to it. “This isn’t about the mission or moving on or whatever.” He stands, still captivated by the far end of the room. “I’m just not looking to replace anyone with a shitty copy.”

He leaves, too stuffed with his own thoughts to hear her pleads to stay. He doesn’t even bother slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Johann stares at his reflection, double checking his appearance one last time. His hair is brushed out of his face, but not in a way that looks stiff. It’s neat, but cool. Cool and casual. Ren offered to help him cover his birthmark with makeup, but Avi already knows what he looks like. He doesn’t need to make a good first impression on the guy he’s had a crush on for nearly five years now. He just needs to swallow his doubts and say how he feels.

Of course, wearing his nice slacks and ruffled shirt helps.

Johann worries the edges of his shirt (which is a size too big—why didn’t he remember that?) as he approached the airlock to the garage, a lump forming in his throat. He’s spent the past few weeks avoiding Barry Bluejeans, but the image of the guy recounting his own marriage invades his brain nonetheless. It’s in the music Johann composes, the usual laments about his life now the dreamy romantic interludes that leave young lovers swooning. He finds himself staying up late at night, under the hexagon windows of his guest room, leaning against the reinforced glass as he plays his violin. It’s not his lovely rosewood, but the replacement Lucas was kind enough to give him still makes every note sound floral, perfumed with desire.

Desire for companionship, for someone to find value in him that’s more than just the bard. Once all the relics are destroyed, everyone will go their separate ways and Johann will be back to living a life all by his lonesome. He wants to know that he has somebody to spend his ever after with. He wants Avi.

Before he can key in the code for the airlock, the door slides open with a hiss. Sloane walks out, stone of farspeech pressed to her ear. “Yeah, Lee, I know,” she says, passing Johann without a second thought. He pauses, watching her stride twenty more feet before taking a seat on the floor. She rests her arms on her bent knees, stone between cheek and shoulder as she nods. “The compressor is where the trouble’s at. He says the old model can be improved, but his design is going to sap power away from the turbines—yeah I did, but he’s a dick and thinks he’s right.”

Her eyes drift towards him, neutral turning into a sharp glare the moment she realizes who he is. He strains a grin and waves. Her glare only sharpens. The doors start to hiss shut, but he fumbles to shove his arm through, stopping them long enough to squeeze through.

The garage is taken up by boxes upon boxes of spare parts, its many tables covered in half-finished machinery that will fill the skeleton of an engine on display in the center of the room. The waning sunlight illuminates the metal in gold and makes the motes of dust look like suspended glitter. On the other side, Avi leans against a table, sipping on a tumbler of brandy as he studies a chalkboard covered in equations. Johann’s not a quiet person—when he steps around the engine, Avi is already looking at him, brow raised. “Hey, Johann. What’s up?”

“Uh…” Age twists Avi, but he wears it well. His wrinkles make him look kind, his streaks of gray an added level of sophistication. He’s shaved off his beard, claiming that the hair had only made him look older. It’s different from what Johann is used to, but he still likes it. Avi has a way of taking every change, welcomed or not, with ease. “Hey.”

“ _Mmhm.”_ Avi twists around, grabbing a cube-shaped bottle. “Want some?”

Johann flexes his fingers. He feels naked without his violin to hide behind. He should have taken Ren’s advice and just written a sappy love song. “Sure, yeah. Totally.”

“Cool, let me just…” He looks over the desk, frowning. He picks up an unrolled sheet of blueprints, checking beneath. After a few moments, Avi pushes aside a few spare pieces to find a metal cup that looks somewhat clean. “Here.” He pours the brandy in the tumbler into the cap, scrambling to refill it with a fresh shot before handing it to Johann. “You can use this. I really wasn’t prepared for anyone—I mean, I think I brought one for Sloane, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

“It’s fine.” Johann cups the sides of the cup, unsure if he should also sip it or down it all in one massive gulp. “How is it? With Sloane?”

Avi whistles, filling the metal cap-turned-cup just enough to guzzle it all. “A pain in my ass. I guess it could be worse, but I’m just stuck in here all day. I feel like I haven’t been able to just relax in forever. Like I didn’t realize Killian and Leon left until a few days ago.”

Johann hums in reply, trying a sip of the brandy. As far as alcohol goes, it’s not terrible but he still wishes he was drinking anything but this.

“I feel bad for Sildar too,” Avi says. “I mean, Barry. He probably thinks I’m avoiding him or something.”

Something ugly edges through Johann, so fast that it catches him off guard. He shifts on his feet, tugging his too big sleeves for a moment as he orders his brain to shut up and not do this to him. “He’s fine. Daniel’s been looking after him. And Ren likes him a lot.”

Avi stews on the idea for a moment. “Can I ask how you feel about Barry?” He sounds casual, but it still jabs a sharp barb into Johann. “I, like, get that no one really likes him and everything, but I think he’s a good guy deep down.”

“I don’t know…” The words feel clunky coming out of his mouth, strange as they swirl through the air. But now that they exist, Johann can’t deny how true it is. He doesn’t know, but he wants to. “I mean, how can you? You, like, know all the stuff he’s done.”

“I haven’t done a lot of good things myself.” Avi sips his drink. “But he did try to help you, so he can’t be that bad.”

Johann’s heart rams against his ribcage, so loud he can hear the beat in his ears. “Uh… that’s… really?”

Avi chuckles. “Yeah. Of course, dude.”

Johann stares, watching the veil of mirth curl the corners of his mouth. The lines in his cheeks only draw emphasis to his happiness. Even when he looks up and sees Johann staring, he doesn’t falter. He turns his head away, running a finger around the cup’s rim. “It’s weird. I know.”

Johann frowns, finally looking away. “What is?”

“All this…” Avi circles a finger around his face. “ _Stuff.”_

“Are you—I guess, are you doing okay? With all that…” He too gestures at Avi’s face. “ _Stuff.”_

The human rubs a hand along his jaw, make an unreadable expression. “It is what it is.”

The sun dips lower in the horizon, the electric lights hanging above them buzzing to life. The song Johann composed to fight back the thrall of the relics still drift from the horns mounted around the room, calming his frayed nerves. He waits for his music to tell him what to do next. He can feel Avi locking up, and he doesn’t have the words to open what’s been closed off. In a moment of inspiration, he inches forwards setting his cup aside on the table. Avi is already placing his makeshift cup down to refill it, but before he can even reach for the bottle, Johann rests his hand over his. Avi pauses.

They both have calluses. Johann’s fingers are long, the tips tough from pressing the wired cords of his instruments. Avi’s hand is missing a thumb, but his callouses still outnumber the bard. They’re rough to the touch, but warm. Feeling Avi’s hand under his, Johann studies his face for any sign of what’s next.

Avi smiles sadly. “You know, my, uh—my twenty-fifth birthday got me thrown in jail—that time I met you. I got rejected from the militia academy and just—I’d done a lot of bad things to get that far and it was all for nothing. I remember getting some drinks and just thinking that it took forever to even make it to year two-five. It felt like it took forever to make it there. I didn’t know how I was going to put up with all of it for another forever. And now…” He sighs, leaning into the table but not yet moving his hand. “I’m old. I literally lost twenty five years of my life. Another forever. And here I was thinking that turning thirty was the death of me. I’m probably going to see another twenty-five pass, but then I’m just going to be a senile. And that just blows. It blows a whole hell of a lot.”

Johann tightens his grip. “You don’t deserve any of this.”

It’s barely above a whisper, easily lost in the electric buzz above. But Avi’s eyes widen, starting to gleam. Johann doesn’t avert his gaze, praying that the brimming wetness around the eyes is something good. Avi turns his face away, his free hand going up to his eyes. “I—” He croaks, sniffling loudly as he tries to recompose himself. “That really means a lot to me. To hear you say that.”

Johann swears he can feel a deep blush reach even the points of his short ears. “I… I, uh—listen, if you, uh, ever need anything, I’m here for you. I… I care about you.”

Avi turns back to him, smiling. Closer than ever, Johann can see the faint dots of a five o’clock shadow imprinting his jaw. “That means the whole world to me.” He’s so close. “I care a lot about you too.”

I have to be shaking, Johann thinks. A shift forward and his chest will knock into Avi’s. Their faces are so close he can already see the swirling design of his irises. He might even throw up. Every jumping beat of his heart rests in his ears, too loud to hear, but still Avi’s words break through. He also cares. Does he understand what that means, the full depths of the confession? Johann doesn’t think he’s ever cared about anything so much before in his life.

His shaking hand rises unevenly, going up from his side and resting on Avi’s shoulder. Avi doesn’t push it back. Their hands still rest on top of each other, and Johann has a grip on his shoulder. Avi is open, the most he’s ever been. Open enough to let Johann slot himself in. They stay in their positions for a long moment, the heat burning on Johann’s face as Avi seemingly waits for something to happen.

Johann makes something happen.

He slides his hand up Avi’s neck, cupping the side of his cheek. He pulls Avi’s face down to his.

And they’re kissing.

Johann feels ready to burst. Both their lips are rough, the motion softer than he wants, but emotions rise up through him so quickly, he thinks he’s going to faint. He’s light, the highest he’s ever been. Avi has to bend to meet him, leaning his weight into the kiss, and Johann’s hand keeps him steady. Avi’s grip on his hand turns tight, and that feels great. Avi’s free hand rises slowly, his fingers touching the sides of Johann’s waist, electric to the touch. He starts to pull Johann closer, a fierce motion that makes Johann’s heart skip a beat.

Avi freezes. His hands slip away like a lifeless doll, suspended in shock. Then he grabs Johann’s shoulders and jerks him back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa—wait!” Johann stumbles back, gut dropping to his knees as he watches Avi scramble a few feet back, a hand over his mouth. “What the—did we just…” His free hand gestures broadly, back and forth between them.

Johann braces against the edge of the table, breathless as he swallows. “Yeah. We, um, we did.”

“God, Johann…” He pinches his brow, frustration clear as he tries to gather his thoughts. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. That was real stupid of me.”

“I kissed you,” Johann says, like that’s going to change everything.

“I know, but like, _I kissed_ _you_.”

The heat on his face turns into something he’s more familiar with—shame. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Yes!” Avi starts to take a few steps forward, before suddenly remembering where being close had gotten them to before. He slides back instead. “You’re you and I’m me. We’re literally—we can’t be putting ourselves through this right now. There’s too much going on.”

“Okay.” Johann presses a hand to his chest, unsure if his heart is even working anymore. There has to be something he can salvage from all this, something to ease the shame torching his insides. “What about afterwards?”

“What?”

“When this is all over. No relics, no secrecy, no _this._ What about then?”

“I…” Avi pauses, looking anywhere but Johann’s face. “I don’t know.”

“Then what the hell was all that before?” His voice pitches to desperation, so much so that he wants to cry. He still wants this to be a simple crush. He wants to be able to shed it like a bad shirt, never to be worn again, but the very through leaves him tangled up, unable to fight free. “You’d—you’d kissed back, didn’t you?”

Avi turns, not meeting his face as he fumbles for his makeshift cup and the bottle of brandy.

Johann presses. “Just say it. Rip the bandage off now and everything. Be honest.”

“Johann.” Avi pours his cup, hunched as he refuses to look. “I’ve never thought of you that way before. I’ve never even considered it. So I don’t know what I want to do. That’s the truth.” The bottle lands on the table with a clink. “Just let it be, okay?”

For a beat, Johann is glued to his spot. No thought runs through his head. The fingers at his sides are still. The buzzing grows louder. Avi turns. There’s sadness mixed with fear—things Johann knows he doesn’t want to see. So he turns, walking out to the echoing noise of Avi muttering a swear. The doors hiss open, and he starts shaking as he steps through.

When the door shuts again, a sob strangles from his throat. He leans against the wall, hand over mouth as he slides to the floor. He doesn’t want to cry. He shouldn’t have to cry over this. He knew this was going to happen. Why is he even surprised?

“Hey.” Twenty feet away, Sloane sits where he left her, stone still to her ear. She presses her face into it saying, “I’ll call you back, Lee.” And she stands, striding over to him with her braid trailing behind her. She squats, arms resting on her knees as she looks at him evenly. “Wanna chat?”

He shakes his head.

She nods. “Cool, cool. I feel ya.” Jerking her chin towards the door, “Avi’s got a talent for fucking shit up. Guarantee, whatever he did is worth raising hell over.” Johann drops the hand from his mouth, blinking as he stares at her. She hates him for the magic he used on her. But she’s the one before him, rising to her feet, saying, “There’s ice cream somewhere around here, right? It’s like twenty-something out there but like it’s always a good time for some Fantasy Ben and Jerry’s, you know?”

A bowl of brownie chunks and a one-sided conversation about everything else in the world later, Johann could say he does.

* * *

“Alright, alright, alright.” Merle puzzles over the sheets of paper by Davenport, a finger on his chin as he tries to piece it together. The winter sun washes the kitchen in a white light, highlighting the signs of exhaustion on everyone’s faces. The past two weeks have been nothing but reviewing the facts they know, trying to figure out their next steps to retrieving their artefacts. To Taako, it reeks of the cycles of hunting down the Light of Creation. Leaning against the counter, he watches from a distance as everyone waits for Merle to parse together Davenport’s train of thought. Everyone from Angus to Lucretia is the picture of patience. Even Davenport seems willingly to let Merle try to help in what ways he can, even if it is a blow to his pride.

How the times have changed. Taako takes a sip of his coffee, tasting nothing but pungent key lime go-gurt. The mug is one they picked up from one of the less magical planes, depicting a beautiful land called _West Virginia,_ complete with lush evergreens and a monstrous moth.

Merle claps his hands together. “Okay, so we think that from the incident at the City of Armos, it’s possible that Taako’s stone could have gone in two different directions—south according to an incident a few years back where a guy turned his family to solid gold, or east when this mountain community suddenly found diamonds in what everyone thought was a diamond-less area.” Merle looks at Davenport. “Right?”

Davenport shrugs, but nonetheless nods.

“I see what the confusion would be about,” Angus says, recording the two theories on the chalkboard. “One is generic to the point where it’s feasible to believe that any powerful wizard proficient in transmutation magic would be a viable suspect. But the other is based around altruism for the general populous, which does not quite line up with the effects of the thralls.”

“There has to be a way we could narrow this down,” Lucretia says, slouching as she massages her temples. “If you think about it, the effects of Taako’s stone could be confused for the Oculus or even Merle’s sash.”

“Belt,” Merle corrects.

Lucretia shoots him a glare. “I have a migraine, old man. We’re not doing this today.”

Angus looks at Taako with the biggest saucer eyes he has ever seen. “Um, sir? Is it possible that there might be some kind of side effect or distinguishing marker about the Philosopher’s Stone you’ve failed to mention?”

“The what now?” Taako says.

“The Philosopher’s Stone. Your relic.”

Taako sips at his coffee, thinking for a long moment. He pulls it away. “Who told you I’m a philosopher?”

Angus’s brow furrows. “Sir?”

“Like, where did the name come from? If someone knows it’s from me and spread the name somehow, doesn’t that mean we’re compromised?”

Lucretia suddenly seems more awake. Davenport mutters his name like a swear while Merle leans back, a breathy “wow” falling off his lips. Taako nods at all of them, dipping his finger into his cup to swirl the warm drink. He knows he already cleared the ship of the Hunger’s spies, once again shooing them away from important areas like the kitchen and Lup’s room. Secrecy is of the upmost importance, especially when they’re hiding in the outskirts of Goldcliff to avoid the Neverwinter militia. Taako doesn’t even want to know what facts about him Ren is spreading to her group—wherever they’re hiding—trying to figure out how to it to their advantage.

“Sir.” Angus fixes his glasses so that they sit straight on his face. “You do realize that the Philosopher’s Stone was a made-up treasure that appeared in many legends, right? Whether on purpose or not, you had just brought a common element of folklore to life.”

Taako stares out the kitchen window, watching a few scant cloud crawl. “So this is all one big misunderstanding?”

“You didn’t base the Philosopher’s Stone on the legends?”

His heart steadies—he didn’t realize it had gone berserk until the moment had passed. Taako presses a hand to the right side of his chest, feeling the even rhythm return. Outside the window, a bird crosses one of the clouds, a black speck smearing across the sky. He ignores whatever new topic Angus is going on about, watching as the large black bird flap towards the window. Taako motions upwards, taking a final drink as he watches the raven take his hint and go upwards.

“I’m blowing this popsicle stand,” he says, waving away Lucretia and Davenport’s objections. “Call me when you need me.”

He doesn’t run to the deck, but he does saunter quickly. Along the way, he checks to make sure his shirt is tucked into his pants, that the folded ends of his boots are even. The mug is still in his hands, but at this point he can’t risk finding a place to put it down without making himself late. Focusing on what he can fix, he unties and reties the ribbon in his orange hair, pulling it into the usual stubby ponytail as he steps onto the deck. There’s no training session for the married couple today, which is lucky. But where he expects to see a black-clad man he only sees the perched form of the raven.

Taking a deep breath, Taako goes up to it. “So, like, what are you? Some kind of messenger or something?”

The raven caws a loud note that makes his bones rattle. Then it stabs its beak into its collection of feathers.

“Huh.” Taako is suddenly thankful to still have his coffee on him as he takes a long drink for emphasis. “So, like, pretending I can understand any of that—where the hell have you been, Reaper Man? You made this whole speech about helping us help you before fucking off for a month plus.”

The bird stares. And blinks.

“Unfortunately for everyone, no amounts of impassioned speeches can necessarily persuade a goddess from alieving me of some of my duties.”

Taako whirls around, searching for the source of that very fake accent. But there’s nobody on the deck except himself and the raven. He points at it. “Telepathy?”

“Close. Look down.”

He does. His shoes look fine.

“The mug, Taako.”

He turns it in his hands, and he finds Kravitz. The watercolor design of beautiful West Virginia now features the miniature form of the Grim Reaper, wearing his work regalia as he leans against one of the trees. The face of the painted Kravitz animates into a grin. “You grew a beard.”

Taako almost drops his mug, swearing when the rest of his coffee sloshes onto his boots. “Ah fuck—how the heck are you doing that?”

“Possession is a fundamental ability for all of the goddess’s servants,” Kravitz replies coolly. Even while miniature, Taako can easily see the man preen. “All it requires is a portion of my soul, which dear Ligeia here was kind enough to transport for me.”

“Ligeia?”

“The raven.”

Taako looks up, giving the raven a quick wave. “Good job, Lily.”

The raven caws back.

“So.” Taako sits, crossing his legs as he holds the mug out before him. “You don’t call. You don’t text. You ghost me—pun not intended. And you can’t bother to bring your whole-ass soul over to apologize?”

The Kravitz on the mug winces. “I admit, there was some carelessness on my side. The difference in time between my plane and yours tends to skew my perspective. For me, truly it has only been a few days.”

“The apocalypse is coming, my dude. Every second counts.”

“And I will be joining you soon, I only need to sort out a few more things here.”

Taako chews on his lip. “If you ask me, this just seems like a convenient excuse for the author to slow the pacing down.”

“What are you even going on about?”

“What _am_ I going on about?”

Kravitz groans, pinching his brow. “I have a request for you, Taako. I have done my best to get in contact with Lady Fate in your stead to ask for guidance, but naturally she won’t grant it on the basis that I am not her emissary.”

“Work politics,” Taako says.

“Indeed. And I know from your memories that she did not inform you of any knowledge she might have.”

Taako throws his head back, staring up at the blue sky. He wants to groan, but he also doesn’t want Kravitz to know how much the very idea of someone knowing everything about his life bugs him. He keeps secrets from everyone, including Lup. If Kravitz wasn’t death incarnate, taking the guy out before he could spill any of his secrets would be a serious option. “Okay, cool. Have you considered the idea that she’s a goddess and she could just tell me anything she wants me to know at, like, any time?”

“That’s not how religion works,” Kravitz replies. “You have to show a god you care before they’ll care about you.”

“Fuck that. My god doesn’t even exist in this plane.”

“I know.”

“Well aren’t you just a know-it-all.” Taako puts the mug down, ignoring how the painted Kravitz (which is just a small fraction of himself) tries to walk closer to the edge of the ceramic, confusion reading clearly. “Anything else about myself you want to tell me?”

Kravitz looks ready to snap back, but stops himself. He takes a deep breath. “No, Taako. That’s—that’s not what I meant.” Once again, that accent fades out to reveal the cadence of a normal guy. “I feel like we’re getting off on the wrong foot. I want to help you. Tell me what I can do.”

“You can, uh, start by not being a total asshole.” Taako starts to wince, regret threatening to bubble to the surface, but he shoves it down until he can continue glaring at the sky. Clouds drift lazily above, clearly defining the ceiling of the world. An idea strikes through him, making him startle. He can hear Kravitz try to sputter through some type of apology, but he ignores it, picking up the mug so that he can look the caricature in the eye. “Paloma’s prophecies. She could, like, tell us where we’re going to find my rock and everything.”

Kravitz scrunches his brows in confusion for a moment, but then allows himself to grin. “Mate, you might actually be onto something blimey brilliant there.”

“Stop with that fake-ass voice.”

“Crickey, I would think this is a far cry from fake.” From her perch, Ligeia crows a long note that makes the picture of Kravitz sigh. “It seems as though my lunch break is up. I’ll be sure to join you as soon as I can, Taako De Loop.”

Taako frowns, coldness running through him. “You’re leaving?”

“I also do have a job I’m required to do, for the sake of the balance of the world.” Kravitz smiles. “I think I would give your hand a kiss if I had the body to do it. And your permission, of course.”

Taako stares, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Uh…” He clears his throat, covering his face. “Whoa, yikes. Do you feel that? Winter heat wave and all that—and in a desert too! Funny how that works and stuff, dude.”

Ligeia caws, the flapping of her wings loud in the air. Taako looks at the painted forest adorning the side of the mug, Kravitz missing from the picture. He scrambles to his feet, watching the raven carry the piece of Kravitz’s soul into the horizon, disappear long before it reaches the billowing clouds of dust that mark Goldcliff’s infamous battlewagon races.

He stands on the deck for a long time after, feeling the clouds above drift him by.

* * *

For all their reputation, deserts are incapable of holding heat. The days are marked by the scorch of the sun, but when the moon rises, it evaporates into dust. A land barren of plant life, hostile to most creatures, has no warmth of its own. Only afternoon, the shortening days make the sunset in the afternoon. The sky is ablaze in hues of yellow and orange when Taako steps onto the deck, the chilling air making blood rush to his cheeks. The cold runs bumps down his arms, and he needs both his uniform robe and jacket to stay warm. The fabric is imbued with a spell that adapts to the changing conditions, whether it wicks water away in torrents of rain or becomes insulated in the cold air. Still, Taako shivers under the sunset, unsurprised to see Merle already sitting on deck, shivering lightly.

Taako makes a big show of throwing his head back in a groan, a beleaguered sigh announcing his arrival. “What the fuck, old man?” He digs through his robe, pulling out his glaive. “Your balls are gonna freeze off.”

Sitting on the stairs leading to the helm, Merle rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “I hear the ladies like that.”

“Ack—kill me now, why don’t you?” Taako pulls one of the rings off his finger, a simple transmutation spell bending its shape into a terracotta pot. He places it a few feet from Merle, another spin of the glaive summoning a magical flame. The vicinity warms, Merle scooting a step lower to be closer. He doesn’t break their mutual silence. Taako leans against the rail, rubbing his hands together for the friction before holding them out towards the flame.

A few minutes later, another set of lumbering steps travel up the stairs. A dressed in red Magnus doesn’t say anything as he carries a metal pot of mulled wine in one hand and jumbles three empty flagons in another. He walks to their little circle around the fire as if he expected it— and he did. “The Burnsides family recipe,” he says, setting the flagons on the ground. He pours the first one and slides it over to Merle.

“With my edits?” Taako says.

Magnus pours another one, setting aside the pot on the ground so that he can hand it to him. “Never.”

Taako snorts, accepting it. “Fuck that.”

“Hey,” Merle says. “Don’t he need a—”

“I didn’t forget.” Magnus pulls a spoon from his jacket pocket, a crooked grin shaded in orange by the flames. He tosses it to Taako, letting the elf catch it with his impressive dexterity.

Taako swirls the mulled wine with his spoon for a moment before spooning it into his mouth. His juvenile magic experiments botched his sense of taste, but only when he drinks. The key lime gogurt curse can be sidestepped only when he tricks it into thinking his beverage is soup. Ergo, he needs a spoon to enjoy his alcohol while Magnus and Merle throwback their flagons with ardor.

For a moment, with the three of them gathered for a warm drink, it’s like all those times during the cycles. A silent agreement to rise from the depths of the ship, the three of them always discovering the other on the deck. Never planned, but always occurring. Barry once asked if they were jerking off, and their little trio was dubbed the Tres Horny Boys. But despite the name, this wasn’t a threesome masturbation session. Magnus often polished his weapons or did a sloppy half-drunk workout. Merle would bring herbs to grind or potted plants to care for. Taako always had books to read, research to scourge through, or clothes to mend—something. They always had work to do in the company of each other, chatter rising through their menial tasks.

This evening, Magnus whittles wood with an old knife, a whistle on his lips. Merle pulls a book from his robe, a pencil pressed to his lips as he studies. And Taako has nothing. The human and the dwarf sit side by side on the stairs, embarking in their work as they sipped their drinks. And Taako, nothing. No job or hobby. He can feel the passing time gunk his senses, feeling like sledge in the air. The sky changes color, the warm hues edging into something cooler But he can’t open his mouth to talk, he can only spectate and wait for someone to notice.

Neither do.

Taako swallows, looking off into the horizon as he spins his spoon in the mulled wine. Dust clouds gather and trail, the signs of a battlewagon race. “Hey, uh, question.”

Merle looks up from his book. “Alright. Shoot.”

“Remember the scroll everyone was into back home? The moving one. About the gnome.”

“Very specific,” Merle says. He turns to Magnus. “Do you remember a moving scroll about a gnome?”

Magnus huffs, never looking up from his piece of wood. “Not all gnomes are the same, Taako.”

Taako’s voice pitches. “Are you accusing me of fantasy racism?”

“I call it as I see it.”

“Your recipe sucks,” Taako says prissily. “Who even throws that much cloves into mulled wine? It overpowers the rest, homie.”

Magnus laughs. Standing above and behind, Taako can clearly see the coils of back muscles vibrate in his mirth. “Okay, okay. I don’t freaking remember any of the scrolls, dude. At least, not the ones I didn’t bring with me.”

“And those are filled with beautiful women.” Merle winks. “Eh?”

Magnus points his knife at him. “I am a married man, Highchurch. That stays between us.”

“Just you two?” Taako slinks between them, long legs bringing him from behind to out front. The fire shadows his shape. “Looks like I’m free to snitch.” He pretends to take a step towards the stairs, smirking when both men break into laughter.

Magnus still has a hand on his belly, leaning back as he looks up at Taako. “I don’t got your brain. Or your brain, Merle. I can’t really remember a whole lot about home.”

“Oh, I can tell you everything you can’t remember, believe me,” Taako says. “Like capitalism? That didn’t happen! Neither did gravity.”

“Boo,” Magnus says.

Merle wipes a tear from his eye, voice light from the remains of his laughter. “Okay, okay, okay. I remember a scroll. It’s, uh. There’s this gnome and he’s traveling all over and he keeps meeting all these bad people and he just kisses them. He smooches them.”

“Oh shit,” Magnus says. “I remember that one.”

“Raandy.” Merle snaps his fingers. “That was his name.”

“Freaking Raandy,” Taako says.

Magnus blows air from his lips. “God, I think I remember it? Like, that theme song? Ninety percent sure I could sing that shit still.”

“That ending.” Merle takes a long sip to punctuate the idea. When he pulls his flagon back, red stains the beard around his mouth. “That cliffhanger.”

“He’s dead,” Taako says. “Has to be. We saw his fucking skeleton. He’s deader than dirt.”

“I think they announced a sequel though,” Magnus says seriously. “We just left before we could ever watch it.”

Merle and Taako groan—Taako throwing his hands up into the air as he pretends to walk away as Merle shouts “no” to the heavens. Magnus starts laughing, full-bodied so that he has to set his flagon aside least he spills it everywhere. It’s so infectious that the other two can’t help but to also join him, Taako snorting as Merle practically rolls over. When it doesn’t seem like they’re going to stop any time soon, Magnus puts his carved wood down and stabs his knife into the deck.

“Oh shit,” Merle says, expressions exaggerated. “Not the deck! Dav’s gonna kill you.”

The look of utter shock on Magnus’s face is enough to make Taako slump to the ground next to the burning pot, a hand over his mouth as he chuckles.

Magnus shrugs, lifting his flagon to his mouth. “How’s he doing, by the way? It’s kinda hard to tell and all that.”

Merle sighs, and the air has weight. Taako’s smile drops from his face as he watches Merle hunch over, fingers pressed to his mouth as he thinks it over. “I think he’s doing the best he can be right now, but it’s going to be a long journey.”

“Are you and him, like, okay?” Taako asks. “Compatibility-wise.”

“It’s a romantic relationship,” Merle says. “But, yeah. I just gotta step up my game. But I think we’ll be fine.” He picks up his book, jabbing his finger into the hard cover. “I’m trying to learn up on all the stuff he knows, just so I can understand what he might want to say better.”

“That’s real sweet,” Magnus says. “This all sucks, but I’m glad you guys are working it out.”

Taako feels his ears shut off, Merle’s reply lost. He’s on the ground, his friends elevated a few inches above him on the stairs, but he feels like they’re worlds away. He wants to reach out a hand, grab onto a rope and yank himself back to the present, but he feels a wall twelve years deep build between him and them. Twelve years of relationship between the captain and the cleric, all of which Taako spent in pursuit of Lup.

He’s been caught up with the random prophecy Merle received from Pan. He knows that Lup is still out there in a fate worse than death, but a decade of searching yielded no signs of her. He wants to keep searching—he needs to—but after Wonderland, he feels glued. To what, he’s not sure.

“What about you?” Merle says. “Have you and Julia talked?”

Magnus frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can at this point. We’ve never really fought like this before. I don’t even know what I can say to her.”

This, Taako understands. He grasps onto the thought of Magnus being married, using it to grapple his way back to reality. “Why are you, uh, even wasting your time?” he asks. Already, he can see the man give him a disappointed look, but he’s already too late into his thought to take it back now. “Like, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure she’s fine, but like dude. She’s so b—” He reconsiders his words. “She’s a jerk.”

“I deserve it.” Magnus wrings his hands. “I lashed out first.”

“Never did I think I would see the day Magnus Burnsides would get bogged down by a chick.”

A spark of something seizes through the human. He looks ready to say something, but stops. Taako can see this new version of Magnus think through his thoughts, deciding carefully what exactly he wants to say. “It’s not like that. She’s my wife. I love her more than anything. But I can’t do this hero-thing with the husband-thing and with the dad-thing. And it’s not fair. I’d thought that those were the same things, but they don’t even overlap. Not by a long shot. What I have to do to save the world are things that could be really bad for Stevie. And what’s good for Stevie goes against what I need to do to be a good husband for Julia. But I can’t do either if the world ends—it’s just a cycle where I have to constantly sacrifice two just to get one.” He hunches over, head bowed so that he can pull on his hair. “I lashed out at her because I was mad at myself. I let Stevie get put into danger. And it’s frustrating. I just don’t think I can do this.”

The fire in the pot cackles.

“I think you need to tell Julia all that,” Merle says.

“I don’t know how.” Magnus shakes his head. “I took my anger out on her. That’s unforgivable.”

Merle places a hand on his knee. “I think deep down, she needs you right now as much as you need her. Just _try.”_

“And if not,” Taako says, “divorce is legal here, right?”

Whatever ease Merle’s words had given Magnus vanishes. Taako has seen Magnus make glares this deadly before, but never have they been directed at him. Sharp and dangerous, the very sight threatening to draw blood. Taako shrinks, fingers drumming on the ground. Even with terror seizing up his joints, he still manages to look away, staring off at the darkening sky. He doesn’t want to watch what Magnus does.

“I’m… just forget it.” Magnus takes a deep breath, standing. “I’ll see you later.”

From the corner of his eye, he watches Magnus stride across the deck, descending the stairs until he’s out of view. “What’s his problem?” he grumbles.

Merle sighs, also getting ready to leave. He collects the empty flagons and pot, leaving Taako with his drink and soup. “Y’know, it’s hard to tell if you’re doing these things on purpose or not.”

Taako huffs. “If I am?”

“He wouldn’t tell you to give up on Lup.”

Ugly emotions make his hands tremble, Taako’s lip curling. He finally looks at Merle in time to send him a dirty look before he waddles down the stairs. “I wasn’t the one who abandoned her!”

Merle only gives him a loose shrug before disappearing from sight.

Taako sneers at the empty space he had been, another shout getting stuck in his throat. He stays on the deck longer than he wants to admit, waiting for one of them to come back and continue the argument. But he stays alone, under a sky that’s a dark, unfamiliar shade of purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that took forever to finish. I am so sorry for the long wait. I was doing a lot in my personal life and, as you can see, this chapter just goes on and on. A lot of things happened at once just so that I can officially say this is the last of the interlude chapters! Relic hunting is back, baby!
> 
> In this chapter's Stevie and John scene, we open up with the two of them back in the blanket fort as they play with Stevie's figurines. John asks why she's upset and, after a little probing, she tells him about how fighting Angus earned her a grounding. John comforts her, asserting that her parents are wrong to punish her for having a justified reaction. He offers her advice: dealing with Angus and the world in general will be easier if she accepted how insignificant it all is (aka: his nihilistic philosophy, adapted into advice). His phrasing ends up complimenting her, so Stevie happily accepts his advice and promises to give it a try.
> 
> Additional notes for this chapter can be found [here. ](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/181935657476/northern-migration-chapter-27-notes-preview) The next chapter will be coming out as soon as it's ready, but considering how big and important it's going to be, I might have to wait until next month. That being said, I do need to address another very important date that I missed (and get very emotional in the process). 
> 
> A week ago today, January 4, was the one year anniversary of me starting this fic. That very idea is just astounding to me. I started writing this on a whim. 2017 was the hardest year of my life where everything that could've gone wrong, did. My depression and anxiety had gotten so bad that I had stopped writing. When my lowest point happened at the end of that year, something had clicked in my brain. I was a mess, but I knew I didn't want to be like this anymore. The first step to recovery, it seemed, was reclaiming the semblance of health. I needed hobbies, a creative output, and goals. I needed to start writing again. It didn't even have to be original works, which I had promised myself I was going to pursue in earnest. Original fiction is scary. Fanfiction is a comfortable space, and that's what I needed. And writing the first chapter filled me with a nostalgic thrill, a part of my saying, "yes! This is what you're meant to do!" I didn't have a solid idea of the plot or even which characters were going to show up, but I started the first chapter of this story on New Year's Eve, posting a few days later. The response this has gotten blows me away. This story is far from perfect, but to see it make so many people happy makes it perfect to me. I am in a much better place now than I was last year in part because I'm able to share my passion with so many. 
> 
> So to everyone who's given this story a read, a kudos, comment, or even just a passing thought: thank you. I don't think I could've made it this far into the plot in such little time without you. I hope we can have another year together, one where stories continue to inspire change in ourselves and the world in which we live in. Goodness knows, I can't wait to see it. Thank you. Xoxoxoxo


	28. In Which the Seven Birds Receive Their Prophecy (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes try to celebrate the holiday. Ren meditates. Isaak and Carey split. There is a grim prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** there is a descriptive moment of magical body horror in the latter half of this chapter. Technically, it's about on par with some of the more horrific moments the McElroy's have given us, so I don't believe it will be anything too rough to read. If you did fine with Lucretia's face falling apart the way it did that one time, then you should be okay now.

Taako bangs his fist on the door, bracing a hand on the frame as he waits for an old lady’s coo to invite him inside. He can feel Angus buzz with excitement at his side, even when no answer comes. “Paloma!” Taako calls, knocking again. “It’s me—Taako! Did you fall and can’t get up?”

Lucretia presses her face to the quaint cottage window, her hands shielding away the glare. “I don’t see anyone inside,” she says. “She might be out.”

“Doing what?” He knocks again, leaning his weight into the frame as he’s answered with silence once more. “She’s, like, super old. I’m pretty sure a snail can move faster than her.” He throws his fist into the door, the bang ever louder. “Paloma! You owe me some scones and I intend to collect!”

Angus pushes his glasses further up his nose. “It is State’s Day. There could be a celebration in town.”

“Angus is probably right,” Lucretia says. “A small town like Refuge is bound to make holidays a community event.”

Taako throws his head back and groans. He can already see a play by play of how each conversation is going to play out. “And I’m gonna have to make a surprise appearance, dazzling the town with the return of their hero.”

“Truly, you are a martyr,” Lucretia says dryly.

“Fine by me, Lucy. We can just try again tomorrow and shit.” He runs his hand over his face, looking down to see Angus looking up at him with a starry look. For all his knowledge and skills, the brat’s still ten. He’s probably dreaming for stone fruit pies and fireside roasts. The longer they stay in Refuge, the higher the chance of an unpleasant conversation will be, along with the probability Angus will be aiming those sad puppy dog eyes in his direction. “Ugh, whatever. Let’s just see what Cap’n Port says.”

* * *

A national holiday, State’s Day celebrates the unification of lands that solidified Faerun into one kingdom. With Candlenights falling on whatever winter day it so chooses, the patriotic event often gets overlooked in favor of the pan-religious celebration. But the festive season that crowns the end of the year is late, its approach bogged down by the national mood. By anyone’s guess, Candlenights won’t be until the final calendar days of the year. It’s better that way—so many businesses were trying to make Candlenights season start earlier and earlier for reasons less than festive. But that’s a well-worn complaint everyone knows.

The seven passengers on the _Starblaster_ more or less know that their captain is seriously considering their ideas. “We’ve been cooped up on the ship with each other for months now,” Lucretia says despite not having heard of the holiday until she was well over a hundred years old. “I think an excursion into town will be healthy for team morale.”

“It’s a holiday, Dav,” Julia says, standing on a brand new prosthetic leg. Being one of two natives of this plane on the ship, her opinion has more credibility. “The kids want to celebrate it. They need a break.”

“We all need a break,” Magnus adds, wrapping an arm around her to drag her close to his side. She tenses under a touch for a moment but nonetheless refuses to show any indication of how surprised she is. “We all don’t need to go get that prophecy.”

Standing off to the side, Taako’s voice comes out of nowhere. “I can handle it flying solo better, my dude.” He waits for Magnus to flash him an ecstatic pair of thumbs up, or even just a jerk of the chin in his direction, but the man’s mouth only tightens. Something sour stirs in Taako's gut, but he looks away and stares off into the middle distance.

The nail in the coffin is Merle leaning forward in his kitchen chair, trying to speak in a low voice only loud enough for Davenport to hear. “It’s not wine, but I hear there’s moonshine tasting.”

At that, Davenport’s pensive visage breaks into a sinister smile. He nods, and the adults clap in relief—Angus starting to blabber about wanting to see if there were going to be any horseshoe tosses while Stevie looks on from her spot on the floor, seemingly hesitant to parse what the nod actually means.

State’s Day, despite being the in the middle space between fall and winter, is noted for family-oriented barbeques and fireworks. Even if Refuge is a nothing town in the middle of the Woven Gulch, the people make an effort to have an impressive party. It reminds Taako of the banquet they hosted when the bubble went down, complete with the same ragtag band of local musicians and long table covered in free food. The amount of adventurers seem to have gone up, Taako sensing that the crowds of people participating in sports and friendly competitions are thicker than they should be. The diamond-based economy must make a Refuge salary very appealing.

There’s a moment Taako thinks he might be able to weave into the throng without anyone noticing, but it doesn't last long. “Taako!” Redmond slaps a large hand on his back, a hearty laugh rising from his chest like the bongs of a church bell. He wears a church robe over his work clothes like a jacket, but Taako suspects that has less to do with a change of career and more of a respect for the holiday. “Don’t be a stranger, Mister Hero!”

“Yeah…” Taako strains a laugh, knowing that everyone else is slipping past him, going their separate ways to enjoy their day away from a massively spell protected _Starblaster_ _._ Even Angus (that clingy thing) is being herded away from him, leaving Taako alone in a crowd of locals who are suddenly recognizing the face on the statue outside the temple. “Hey, guys. Miss me?”

A half hour passes in a blur as hand after hand is thrusted in his direction. After the first few, the anxiety warping his perspective slips away, his awkward attempts to remember everyone’s face turning into his usual performance. “I remember swindling you for diamonds,” he says to one woman. To a man, he does not hesitate to shake his hand, saying, “and you’re still the worst paladin I’ve ever seen in my life.” It’s easy. He’s even laughing, shining like a bright light. He doesn’t even care that he doesn’t find Paloma somewhere in the mix.

Redmond corners him away from the crowd, giving him an unneeded break from all the attention. “I take it that you’re doing well?”

“Besides the eyepatch,” Taako says. “ _Ex-cel-lent_.”

“You have to tell me about your adventures with Ren. It’s been so long since she last visited and—”

“Uh, yeah. See here—I don’t have a good answer for that.” Taako slips away before he can hear anymore, escaping from Redmond’s attention and into a group of adventurers heading further down the one-street town. A familiar set of washboard doors enters his range, and for a moment he considers skipping over them and continuing onwards. But if Redmond is asking about Ren, she isn’t in town. He’s safe to go into the Davy Lamp without causing more trouble than he wants.

The saloon looks the way it always has, down to the dour atmosphere that belies its welcoming presence. While there is an eclectic group of drunkards at every table, bashing the sides of the cups together before downing their drinks, there’s no one Taako thinks is going to give him too much trouble. He doesn’t even see Sheriff Isaak stooped in some corner, a black cigarette balanced in his mouth. Beautiful music comes from the piano in the corner, easing his nerves as he approaches the bar. Being as tall as he is, it doesn’t take him a lot of effort to look over the counter to see the top of June’s head as she organizes the cabinet.

He slides onto the stool, resting his chin on his hand as he studies the sunburn reddening the part between her corn-colored braids. “If you ask me, the service here is just awful.”

June bangs her elbow into the cabinet, shouting a loud swear as she shoots onto her feet. Despite the time pushing her from adolescence and into adulthood, her splattering of freckles gives her a particularly girlish flair. “Oh my god! Taako!”

He snaps his fingers. “Damn, it feels good to hear that again.” She leans over the counter, trying to wrap her arms around him in a hug. He rolls his eyes and lets her do it. She even smells like an adult with an alcohol problem, though that might be less a symbol of how time changes people and more an occupational side effect. “Yup, this sure is swell.”

She pulls away, holding his shoulders as she gives him a serious look. “Y’all have to come by here more often,” she says solemnly. “A few months ago, the visitor—the one from the statue—came back to town and started asking where the cup was. He was trying to get information on you and Miss Ren and I was so worried.”

Taako’s mouth tightens. “Oh, really?”

She looks around, making sure that no one is listening. “And there’s been some adventurers coming around here with all these stories about some evil wizards called the Red Robes. They haven’t come back and finished the job, but they might be lookin’.”

He frowns. “What job?”

“I don’t know. Revenge for getting rid of the cup. Another bubble. Whatever was phase two for bubble number one.”

He peels her hands off his shoulders, trying to look as pleasant as possible as every nerve in his body is alight. “I have this Red Robe situation under control, June Bug. You gotta trust me.”

“I do trust ya.”

“Great. Do you have any idea where Paloma is?”

It was her turn to frown. “Y’all didn’t come here to visit?”

“I’m multitasking, dear. You have to when you got a schedule as busy as mine.”

She picks a rag from a bucket, ringing the water out before wiping down the counter. “I don’t know. I’m not her babysitter, but speaking of babysitters, have you heard from Ren?”

He looks away, fingers drumming on the surface. Seems like Ren never told the people of Refuge what happened to him. “We’re not traveling together anymore.”

“I mean, I know that much, but that ain’t the question. Here—” June rushes over to the small trash can in the corner of her working area, pushing aside a piece of garbage to retrieve a few pieces of torn paper. When she brings them back, she pieces them back together like a puzzle, revealing a postcard from one of the eastern cities. “Isaak keeps on sending me these… _things_ and this one here mentions how he’s found a traveling partner. Do you think it’s her?”

“Doubt it.” His jaw is tight, his back curved in a careful hunch. He can see Isaak’s careful script recounting a train ride from Neverwinter, him pleading for June to stay safe and sound.

Taako had broken into Isaak’s house with Ren once, back when the bubble was up and she forgets him and dire predicament every hour. He’d searched through a collection of diaries as Ren tried to parse through a stack of letters on his desk. Isaak had a lot of feelings for Jack and June, often calling them the family he never had. He wrote about how he loved Jack as more than a brother, and Taako knew the story not being written down. “Listen—Junebug. I’m just a famous hero who saved this town and yourself, but maybe you should write him back.”

June curled her bottom lip, thin brows set in a stern look. “He killed my dad.”

Taako cocks his head to the side. “Never said to forgive him. You can’t get through life putting words into other people’s mouths. I’m just saying—if you want him to stop, tell him.”

June’s hand swipes over the counter, brushing the pieces of the postcard back into her palm. “That’s where you’re wrong.” She dumps them back into the trash. “He ain’t writing for my sake.”

“Yeah, I feel that.” He slips off the stool. “Well, if you don’t know where Paloma is…”

“Just hold it right there. I still owe ya a drink.” She starts searching through her pile of dirty dishes. “I got a good vintage in here somewhere. Just need to find the key to the cabinet.”

He flashes a thumb. “Chill. I’ll just wait here…” He turns around, a whistle on his lips as he takes in the Davy Lamp once again. The insufficient lighting casts much of the saloon in shadows, suffocating without Ren’s overly keen personality to lift the weight. All the worrying he’s managed to stave off now pushes past his walls, fighting for real estate in the forefront of his brain. It has to be everyone’s constant questions about where she is. He’s been fine with not knowing until now.

Taako meanders around the saloon, studying the various trinkets mounted on the walls as he goes. Missing Lup is a fact of living. She’s the ache in the neck when he wakes up in the morning, one that lasts throughout the day. He feels it in every movement, getting worse the more he thinks it over. Incurable and tiring. Ren is like a gunshot—loud and sudden. Painful, fleeting, but nonetheless prominent. Taako hates it. He can take a lingering ache when it’s one he’s been born with. Gunshots wretch control from him. He’s off-kilter, a victim of vertigo as his brain does things he does not agree with. He’s a puppet to his feelings.

Taako doesn’t even realize he’s standing by the piano until the beautiful music hits a sharp note. His hand rests on the edge of the beaten up baby grand, the top propped up the reveal the perfect arrangement of cords, small hammers striking each one with the press of an ivory key. Taako can’t remember if Ren always had a piano this nice or if this is an addition made by June.

“You’re looking a little lost.” Sitting at the piano bench, hands gliding over the keys with little thought, is Kravitz. In the flesh, his braids drape over his slender shoulders, the decorative beads bright against the formal blanket wrapped around his frame. He looks the way Taako remembers, but now he’s here in the world of the living. He tries for a cocky smile, but a bashful little smirk smothers it. “Why do you look so surprised? I did tell you that I would be joining you soon.”

His snort wipes the shock from his features. “Dramatic bastard. How long have you been waiting here?”

Kravitz averts his eyes to the piano keys. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“A likely story.”

“A factual one.”

Taako raps his knuckles on the piano. “You’re, like, not even a magician. I haven’t seen playing this good since Barry Bluejeans got drunk and insisted he could rewrite _Danny Boy_ into an emo rock anthem _.”_

Kravitz’s makes a face that says he knows exactly what Taako’s talking about—because he does. “I may not understand that level of majesty, but I was a bard in a past life.”

“Huh. Reincarnation is canon here. Nice.”

“Metaphorical past life.”

“Boo, boring.”

June comes back with a wine bottle, handing it over to Taako with a please look. “I got this from a nice little winery just over those mountains. Cost a pretty penny.”

Taako takes it with a grin. “So, like, what is that? One diamond to you?”

“Wouldn’t ya like to know?” June rocks onto the tip of her toes, managing to peck a little kiss on his cheek despite her shortness. “Don’t be a stranger, now. Come back around when you’re done with Paloma.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll consider it.” Taako watches her rush back to her counter, telling the tiefling demanding to get a refill right that instant to hold his horses. The final notes to Kravitz’s song is what makes him turn around again, in time to see the glassy look Kravitz forced on his face. Taako stows the wine bottle in his bag of holding—in the special one at his armpit. “So, you’re like the Grim Reaper, right?”

Kravitz’s fingers still, the piano echoing with the last few notes. He holds his pose for a moment, taking a deep breath in and out as he comes back to reality. Or, if his polite indifference to his conversation with June is any indication, pretending to do so. “Yes. I’m fairly certain you are aware of that.”

“Can’t you just track down the souls of the dying—”

“Paloma isn’t dying.”

“But she’s so old!”

“I believe we’ll have to continue our search on foot,” he says prissily. He stands, smoothing his slacks. Even with his fake-ass accent, he’s surprisingly tangible. “Well, let’s go.”

Taako rolls his eye. “Hold it, Reaper Man. If we’re gonna do this jazz, we’re gonna have to get on the same page.” He jerks his chin towards the bar. “You got a problem with June Bug?”

Kravitz makes a face before quickly forcing it into one of confusion. “That’s an interesting name—”

“You have my memories, dumbass. Try again.”

A sheepish look covers his face as he looks away, a finger toying with the end of one of his braids. When he talks, it’s without the accent. “When we talked last, I thought that you wanted me to stop acknowledging everything I know about you. If you haven’t told me something, I’m going to act like I don’t know it.”

“Oh.” Every nerve in his body tells Taako to look away, to study anything but the way Kravitz is looking at him. But he can’t turn his eyes away from someone whose cheeks are flushing with the hint of embarrassment, who can’t even gather the courage to look at him in return.

And he just keeps staring.

Kravitz coughs. “We best be going.” And his accent is back.

He’s already halfway through the washboard doors when Taako shouts. “Hey, June!” The girl looks up from her stack of dirty glasses, catching sight of Taako giving a lazy jerk of the thumb towards Kravitz. “That’s Kravitz.”

She smiles and waves.

When Taako turns to Kravitz, he sees the Grim Reaper frozen in place, a flush traveling down his neck. Amazement fills him, softening to something fonder. Gut jumping, Taako strides past him. “Keep up, Bones. We got an old lady to find.”

* * *

Magnus attempts to slide a handful of silver pieces, only for the nice gentleman by the deep frier to turn him away. “That kind of money doesn’t work here,” he says with a laugh. He hands over the plate of funnel cake, a twinkle in his eye. “Happy State’s Day, sir.”

So Magnus thanks him, being as charming as he can manage before turning around and finding his girls. There isn’t vendors wagering fun and prizes like there would be in Raven’s Roost, but they’ve managed to find various games to play with some of the locals. Julia stands at the edge of the crowd, arm over her chest as if she wants to cross it with another. Stern-faced, she watches Stevie stand on a chalk line on the ground. Makeshift targets have been set up, her one among many children participating in a for-fun archery contest. Many of the kids are a few years older than her, making her the smallest of the bunch. When Stevie glances over her shoulder, he can see a somber face that’s becoming more characteristic for her by the day.

Magnus squeezes past a few people, managing to fit himself in the spot next to his wife. “How’s she doing?”

“You’re just in time. She’s about to go.” Without turning to look at him, she slides the plate out of his hand, ripping off a few pieces with the fork. “She’s going to need to score within the top third to go to the second round—have we even taught her any archery?”

“I did. A little a few months back. She was okay enough at it.”

Julia chews for a long moment.

“How it taste?” he asks.

“I’ve never had stone fruit jam on a funnel cake before.”

“What’s stone fruit?”

On any other day where they weren’t arguing and she was willing to put up with his silliness, she would’ve laughed and made fun of him for still not knowing the food of this plane. But now she only shakes her head, focusing in on the competition. A few preteens launch their arrows at the targets, two managing to miss the bullseye by a smidge. When it’s Stevie’s turn, Julia whoops as Magnus shouts for his little bear cub. Stevie draws her back taut, lifting up her bow. Her arms shake as she pulls the string back, which makes the notched arrow slip a bit out of place. Magnus makes a face, wincing when Stevie fires her arrow.

To her credit, it goes a hundred feet but it doesn’t even come close to hitting the target. It embeds in the building behind them, the end wobbling in the wind. Julia hisses, shoving the plate back into Magnus’s hands. “Is she going to…”

While some of the spectators give her polite applause, Stevie stares down at her bow. Without a word, she hands it over to the kid next to her. She takes a deep breath, and for the next ten minutes as the last of the contestants go, she is the picture of a graceful competitor. When the dwarf running the contest calls for a quick break as the next round is set up, Stevie disperses with the rest.

Magnus lowers onto his knee, holding out his arms over her to run into. “There’s my bear cub!” Stevie trots to him, accepting the hug gladly. He presses his hand into her back, waiting for the shuddering heave of a crying child. It doesn’t come.

Julia covers her confusion with a proud look. “You handled that with the grace of a champ.”

Stevie pulls away, beaming. “It doesn’t really matter. I just wanted to try it.”

“I think that’s a very mature attitude to have,” Julia says carefully.

“Well I think—” Magnus lifts Stevie onto his shoulders, causing her to squeal and hang onto his hair. “—someone here deserves a loser’s celebration!”

A loser’s celebration means getting a few more plates of funnel cake, laughing when powder sugar and stone fruit jam paints Magnus’s nose. They go apple bobbing, and find the ever fated horseshoe toss. The sun starts lowering in the sky, threatening to dip below the horizon when Stevie finds a group of kids playing jump rope. Magnus and Stevie stand to the side, watching her try to learn their various skipping songs before trying to jump in herself.

Magnus looks down at Julia, feeling the gap of air between them. It's only a few inches, but to him, it's a canyon. He wants to reach out and know she'll take his hand— like she did before he screwed everything up. If she notices him staring— _aching_ —she doesn’t say a word.

He clears his throat. “Jules?”

She takes a deep breath. “Yeah?”

“I know I’m, like, a month late with this. But I’m sorry.” She looks up at him, face unreadable as he wrings his hands, forcing the words out of his mouth. “I just—listen: I was mad at myself and I took it out on you. And there’s no words for how wrong that was. I’m sorry I did that to you. And I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you, even though you need it now more than ever. I’ve been a real shitty husband.”

She looks down, stepping closer so that the gap between them fills. She places her forehead on his arm, keeping her head bowed as she speaks. “I’ve also been a real shitty wife. I’ve been using you being mad at me as an excuse to lash at you.” A beat. “You always have Stevie’s best interest in mind, and I just don’t. And I need to start listening to you. I should’ve always been listening.”

Magnus wraps his arms around her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “I know you care,” he says.

She lifts her head, leaning upwards to peck his lips. It’s short and sweets, but it’s been so long since they’ve done anything like that. A part deep inside of him cracks. “I love you. I’m sorry for everything.”

He hovers his hand by the side of her face and waits until her little nod before her cups her cheek. It’s warm, soothing her sad smile. “I love you, Jules.” He leans down to kiss her. This one is longer, destroying the last of the barriers they’ve put up between themselves. She can feel all of his worry, his need to be there for her no matter what. And he can feel her loneliness, the amount of pain these last couple of months have been for her.

When they pull back, she pushes her hand through his hair. “Same.”

For a long moment, Magnus can only stare. Now he’s finally looking, and now he can see the newfound age clinging to her. The streaks of gray in her cropped locks, the deeper grooves of her wrinkles. He’s always been a hundred years older than her, but now she’s caught up by ten. But as different as she is, she’s still his Julia. And the very thought of spending forever with her makes his heart hum, loving content pumping through his veins. He presses his face into her hair, breathing in and out.

He mutters _I love you_ as the sun sinks deeper into the bed of the mountains, the words gaining new meaning with each adoring repetition.

* * *

“You are literally my favorite person right now. I haven’t had this stuff in over a decade.”

Ren listens as Barry shoves another forkful of food into his mouth, a look of utter bliss overcoming his features as he chews. “You’re just lucky Taako bothered to give me the recipe in the first place,” she replies. He nods, mouth too full of blueberry bread pudding to reply. Ren wipes her hands off with a dish towel until she notices no sounds of eating coming from Johann. He sits at the table, still as he studies his full plate. “Hey. You should eat.”

Johann shakes his head. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Weren’t you just binging Fantasy Ben and Jerry’s?” Barry says between bites. It’s inelegant, but it’s hard to imagine someone like Barry Bluejeans embodying anything close to grace.

Johann scowls, pushing his plate towards the human. “Yeah. And I’m, like, full.”

“You’re depressed,” Ren says.

“I’m always sad.”

“I mean genuinely depressed.” She turns to the sink, tossing the dish towel aside. It lands in the basin. “I’m not saying you’re not allowed to be upset, but wallowing isn’t going to do you any favors. Getting over someone takes sincere effort.”

Barry nods, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “She’s right.”

Johann glowers. “I’m not taking any advice from you.”

“Your lost.”

The airlocks to the communal kitchen slide open, a triumphant Killian and Leon striding through. Both carry a collection of burlap bags over their shoulders, though the majority of them rest on Killian’s broad shoulders. “We’re back,” she says, dropping them all so that she can hold out her arms. Ren makes an excited squeak, navigating her way around the table so that she can give Killian a hug. She knocks into the orc’s chest instead, causing Killian to catch her.

The robot projecting Lucas’s image wheels in behind them, showing a very happy Lucas as he sits behind his usual work desk. “Thank goodness you’re back,” he tells them. “I would come out to personally welcome you back, but unfortunately I’m very busy with an experiment.”

“You’re always busy,” Leon says.

“I have the hardest job here.”

Johann sighs, pushing back his seat. “I’m gonna lay down.”

Leon folds his arms over his chest, trapping his lengthy beard between them. “What’s got your panties in a bunch? Avi’s a dumbass. He’s Captain Dumbass for a reason, remember?”

“Are we still doing the captain joke?” Lucas asks.

Shame colors Johann’s cheeks as Killian gives him a look of sympathy. “Remember we’re here for you no matter what.”

Johann drags his hands down his face, making an inarticulate scream. He stomps to the airlock leading to his room, throwing one last remark over his shoulder. “Stop gossiping about me!

Barry shoves another mouthful of bread pudding into his mouth, awkwardly looking between where Johann had been to where everyone else stands.

“Babysit Bluejeans for a bit,” Killian tells Leon. When he gives a quick salute, she places her hand on Ren’s shoulder. “Can we go talk somewhere private?”

They go to the greenhouse. Ren keeps her arm looped through Killian’s, letting her guide her over the stone path, deeper into the tropical foliage Lucas maintains just for the opulence of it all. Killian finds them a little grove off the path, parked by a stone bench overlooking an artificial river. They sit, shedding their winter layers and rolling up their sleeves until their bare skin meets the humid air. Killian takes a moment to observe the black-and-white collection of leaves and vines, how even in the winter there are still flowers blooming. Killian plucks one with long, furling petals off the stem, holding it up to Ren. “What color is this one?”

Ren takes it, ears pressing downwards as she sniffs. “I don’t know.”

Killian snorts. “Wow, that was stupid of me.”

Ren flicks her sunglasses, this pair a neon yellow in the shape of stars. “Watch yourself.”

The orc brings her burlap sack to her lap, pulling the drawstrings loose. “Okay, so first off—here’s your umbra staff back.” She pulls the umbrella free, placing it on Ren’s lap where she can easily pick it up and run her hands over the canvas. “Leon still can’t find anything weird about it. I think I’d feel better if you’d stop carrying it around with you.”

“For all its faults, I like it.”

“Thought you might, dumbass. So I got all the other things you asked me to get from your room, but like, there was something else waiting there for you.” Killian pulls a bundle of purple cloth from the sack, placing it on Ren’s lap.

She runs her hands over it, feeling well-worn fabric, an item they conceal, and the crinkle of paper on top. “What’s that say?”

“Um…” Killian picks it up, squinting as she reads. “It’s just math. Two plus two equals five.”

She can’t help it—a laugh bubbles up her throat. Her fingers stay on the worn fabric, but now that she knows Taako is behind it, she can imagine it’s the purple cloak he always wore. When she starts to unravel it, her hands find the metal clasps that hold it together, recognizing by touch the shape of the gold, prowling mongooses. When she finally pushes away the last layer of cloth, she finds two smooth pieces of stone. She can feel the power radiating off of them, holy and pure. Her fingers find the hooked ends, and her heart stops. “Are these really knitting needles?”

“Um, yeah? Do you know who left them for you?”

“A friend,” she says.

“So… Taako?”

“Damn it, Killian.”

“Who else was I supposed to guess?” She gives a playful shove. “I don’t think he took anything of importance. He really did just go back there to leave you those.” Killian leans back on her hands. “Are those the ones that goddess gave you?”

“Yeah. He must have gotten them back from Wonderland somehow.” Ren looks where she thinks Killian is, trying to give the appearance of looking her in the eye. “So why did we need to be private for this? Is something up?”

Killian shifts, gnawing on her lip. “I mean, yeah. Kinda.” She takes a deep breath. “As I was going through all out stuff, I kept on finding these references to this guy. And like, I found a chore chart with his name on it, a toilet caddy with his name on the side, even portraits with his name on the back of them. But, like, I don’t remember him. I can’t even remember his name.”

Ren’s ears droop. “Oh, Killian…” She shifts, smoothing her hands up and down the goddess’s gift. Her voice shifts to something stilted but effective—the practiced speech of a caring friend. “We’ve had this conversation a few times. There used to be another drow working with us named Brian. He was our friend, and he died on the job. You gave up your memories of him in Wonderland. And when this conversation is over, you’re going to forget everything all over again.”

Killian tears a petal off the flower. She looks with distant eyes. “Oh. I, uh—are you sure?”

“Positive. And I’m so sorry.”

“Oh…” Killian shifts, tusks digging into her skin. “I don’t think—I think I can feel something’s wrong. But…” She shakes her head, standing. “I think I need some time to just think it over.”

Ren takes a deep breath. It’s the same conversation every time, the same sentiments and horror repeating over and over again. “If you ever need to talk, I’m right here.”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess.” She waves weakly. “I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll see you at dinner.” The sharpness of her words makes Killian snort, the horror abating as she starts to walk away. Ren can hear her worry shuffle turn back into confident strides—Wonderland’s curse overtaking her once again.

Ren hunches, sighing a beleaguered breath. She can feel the air flushing deep from the depths of her ribcage, spilling out before her until she’s empty inside again. In and out. Again and again. Her hands need something to do, so she starts wrapping her braid into a ball at the top of her head, fitting the holy knitting needles through. The greenhouse is calm, but quiet save for the artificial creek running through. There’s no animal life, and it leaves the place with a plastic sheen.

She has half the mind to find her way back to the kitchen, inevitably getting lost until the Brat Bot attempts a rescue. But when she grabs the umbra staff, the smooth handle makes her pause. There’s no sensory flood. The woman inside doesn’t respond to the touch of Ren’s magic. She knows that there’s no technical reason for the umbra staff to go wild, but Leon doesn’t know about the sensation of the trapped woman. No one knows except for herself.

Ren folds her legs until they’re comfortable for meditation. Taking the umbra staff in hand, Ren tunes out the outside world and wraps her hands around the purple canvas. Magic spills from her palms, funneling into the umbra staff.

Her magic ricochets back out, zapping her.

Ren hisses, dropping the umbra staff so that she can shake the pain away. A moment later, she wraps her hands around it again, imbuing the magic with her plead. Please, she thinks. I only want to help you.

Her magic reaches deep inside, and she knows what’s inside. A room made of nothing, blocked off by encircling curtains. Power and magic from every inch of the universe, twisting and turning in a wondrous pulse of energy. Behind it all is the same soul as before—the woman trapped inside. What was once remarkable sorrow is now frustration. Anger, and the brittle state of patience. It sears Ren, demanding that she backs off now, but Ren persists. You need help, she pleads. Let me help you.

Why do you care, the soul demands.

Ren’s memories of the soul’s despair fill the cosmic space between them.

The soul demands to know what else.

A quick image of Taako from a long time ago, scowling as he wrings the water from his drenched hat. “You’re a goddamn martyr,” the memory of him says.

Ren’s magic swirls with the reserves of the umbra staff, poking and probing for the opportunity to know how she can help.

This is her response: a memory of a flat disc—a plane—swallowed by a living storm, a hunger eating it from within. There are seven on the ship, escaping through the reaches of the universe. All the places they’ve seen— planes of people, planes of flames, planes orbiting each other in a dance, planes of places never to be seen, planes of everything, planes of nothing— _and it’s too much—_ the picture changes. There are seven, but there are twins. One a philosopher, guarded behind the fabrications of his thoughts. Dressed in red. All in red. At his side is a woman. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, she’s dead, she’s alive, she’s dead, she’s fighting, she’s escaping, she’s laughing, and she’s dead—she’s in love, and the beat of a passionate heart lies in a man who twists his wedding ring when he’s worried, who’s as stuck in a loop as she. She’s living, then she’s dead, then she’s both at once—nothing and everything in a world that makes no sense. But there’s guilt. The plane of guilt. And war. And life. And freedom. And guilt. And death. And she’s lost—trapped by a metaphor. An allegory, a fitting defeat. Trapped and yearning, but now she’s here, and she’s asking, she’s pleading, she’s—

“Lup!” Ren drops the umbra staff. She presses a hand to her chest, gasping for air. Everything is jumbled—her brain actively begging for her to not push further, to resist trying to understand what she’s not meant to know. But she knows what she needs to.

She’s found Lup.

* * *

Even though it is State’s Day, the mayor is more than happy to talk to them. He sits in a beautiful parlor, the window looking over the crowd of celebrating townsfolk. “It’s a sensitive subject,” he says, hands resting on portly stomach. “But, given that it’s our history, there’s no point in treating it taboo.”

“That’s fine and reasonable,” Isaak says, looking up from his diary. New Armos is not a rich or even big town—it pales in comparison to metropolises like Neverwinter and Goldcliff. But in the baby blue parlor that makes Carey roll her eyes at the formality of it all, he looks out of place. Uncomfortable armchairs do not match worn worker’s jeans. “Just tell me what you can.”

The mayor pinches his beard. “You see, there’s not much to it. Many years ago, we were the happy citizens of the City of Armos when out of nowhere, the land was cursed into transforming into sugar. It started in the center of the city and spread outwards, and anything that touched it would be infected. About half of the citizens were lost. Most of the people living here are the few survivors who could stand being so close to such tragedy.”

Isaak writes it all down with diligence, the lead in his hand smearing across the page. Carey stalls in her pacing, studying a map mounted to a wall. So many rich guys think having maps as decoration makes them intelligent, a line of logic she doesn’t understand. But she can see how far they are from the ruins of the City of Armos—which is to say, not far enough. “If you can’t touch it, how did you stop it?”

The mayor’s eyes become glassy. “My daughter did it. She found this staff capable of containing the plague. But if she ever stops using it, the barrier will go down and the infestation will continue to spread.” He places a hand over his mouth. “This was a very long time ago.”

Isaak puts his pencil aside. “I’m sorry for your loss. Believe me, I understand how you feel.”

“Just promise me one thing,” the mayor says. “My Mabel threw everything away to keep us safe. Sometimes I hear a sweet poem about her. She’s a hero. I’m not happy about it, but let sleeping dogs lie. I know the number of people saved by losing her.”

Isaak finds a few reasons to linger in New Armos, talking to vendors, buying a postcard, and taking an interest in how other areas celebrate the holiday. Wasting time. The first snow of the season ices the ground, the boots of the throng muddying white to black. Cold blooded, Carey bundles deeper into her ten layers of coat in order to stay warm. Even then, she feels sleepy with cold. The sun is starting to look sad in the sky when he says, “Alright, Carey. Let’s check out that staff.”

They rent horses, hoping to make the ten miles through the forested coastline in decent time. The light blue of a winter’s day colors in the fiery hues of a sunset when they see a dazzling wall grow in the distance. A crystal white, it’s a citadel that dances with the colors of the rainbow when the light hits it. Only slightly opaque, they can see shadows of the destroy city lie behind, standing tall and proud despite the years. The closer they get, the grander it becomes. Something out of a fairytale.

They leave the horses half a mile back, reins tied to a tree as they make the last of the trek on foot. “So what’re you thinking?” Carey asks, pulling her stolen pair of headphones from her bag of holding.

“If those rumors out there are anything to go by, it was that Philosopher’s Stone that destroyed Armos.” Isaak draws his wand—a special model made from metal, designed to give punchy blasts of concentrated magic with the pull of a trigger. “But I reckon that the staff they were going on about is a Grand Relic too.”

“Really?”

“Not one thing can triumph over a Grand Relic, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone trying to fight fire with fire before.”

“Relics canceling each other out.” Carey huffs. She puts the headphones on. “Alright, man. I’m sold…”

Her voice dies out. They’re within feet of the barrier, but now they can see what the mayor had told them. The emancipated form of a young woman stands, hunched over as frail hands grasps a plain, white oak staff. The trepidations running through every limb are the only signs of life, the struggling hoarse gasp of air every few beats the hint of agency. Isaak stops in his tracks, fog clouding his face as he stares. Carey keeps walking, feet crunching snow as she gets closer. The clothes hanging off the woman’s body are threadbare from the elements, hanging off her frame like cobwebs. Black curls hang loose, the ends piling on the ground as the midsection sways in the chilly breeze. This close, Carey can see that the staff truly is a plain creation, the amateur notches in the wood a testament to the care that had gone into its crafting. But she doesn’t consider that for too long.

Her gloved claws touch the woman’s face, lightly pressing the sides of her hollow cheeks. Skin hangs from her, the elements battering it until she seems decades older than she really is. Her mouth hangs open in a perpetual expression of horror. But her eyes are the worst part. Stuck open, a brilliant white light consumes them—but not enough. When Carey squints, she can see green eyes and pupils that stare back with a sense of _knowing_.

She’s trapped, and she’s been conscious for it the entire time.

Carey hears the snow crunch behind her. “Come look at this, Isaak,” she says, trying to make her hold on the woman’s face more comforting. “You gonna wanna write this—” Pain blasts through her shoulder. She screams, falling against the barrier. The agony radiating through her body numbs her as well as the cold does, and she struggles to keep her hazy head clear as she tries to find her knives buried under the layers of coats.

A second blast hits the small of her back. Carey cries out, straining to twist around so that she can see what’s going on. When her fingers wrap around her knife, she rolls over in time to see Isaak.

He looks nervous, his coat hanging open in the cold as he gets close to the woman. To the staff. Carey’s free hand goes to her headphones, making sure they’re in place. She didn’t even notice the thrall. “Isaak!” she shouts, struggling to make it back onto her feet. Raising her knife, she makes sure he can see it, and it’s the glint of fading sunlight on the blade that makes him pause. “Don’t! Fight it back, or else.”

Isaak shakes his head, stepping between her and the staff. “I can protect so much.” His hand wraps around the woman’s. “I can protect June.”

“Don’t you…”

He raises his wand once more. “Carey, this is for your own good. Step back.”

Her eyes dart in every direction, hoping to find something, _anything_ that could help. But she’s alone, and the one thing that can make him snap out of it will make her fall victim to it herself. Reason can’t help him now. Her one choice is to hurt Isaak enough that he’ll stop. Now she’s paused for too long, and his hand is starting to pull away the hands on the staff.

Carey rushes forward. The knife digs into his side, hitting nothing vital. She buries it as deep as it will go, waiting for the pain to overcome his loyalty to the thrall. But he doesn’t even seem to notice, dropping his wand only so that he can finally pull the staff free.

A low note echoes over the land. The barrier hums, the magic breaking into swirling sparks that seem to crawl back into the tip of the staff. It booms— long and deafening. The woman falls onto her knees, her hoarse throat making a long gasp that turns into panicked panting. Her eyes are clear, the green of her irises brilliant.

And the City of Armos stands in perfect view, the first building less than a mile away. White powder covers the ground, the breeze wafting spores from the buildings a mile away towards them. Carey shouts, scrambling away from Isaak and Armos before any could hit them.

“Oh my god…” One of the spores land on the woman’s hand. Immediately, her skin becomes brighter, turning into a hard white substance that shines under the light. But as it spreads, the white turns into an artificial red. Then back to white. The woman screams, her arm turning hard as it morphs into peppermint inch by agonizing inch. Carey watches in horror as the woman flings herself onto the white powder—powder sugar—so that the cursed candy infects more of her, immediately wrapping around the throat of a woman desperate to end her pain as soon as possible. She’s barely prone on the ground when the transformation speeds up, her screams dying out as the power of the Grand Relic turns her into confection.

And Isaak stands there, holding the staff as some of its power crawls out from its tip, spreading over his arm and into his body. Some of the spores—cotton candy—hit his skin, but he doesn’t transform.

Carey’s heart hammers, blood hot in her veins as she makes her decision.

She stands and immediately sprints towards Isaak. Jumping into the air, she kicks him back, him landing on the knife in his back. He screams, nails digging into the staff. She wretches it out of his hand, and his nails chips off a piece of the bark. Her foot digs into his gut as she launches herself away.

She takes off running. The agony in her shoulder is almost too much to bear, but she climbs onto her horse and kicks it into action, using her memory of the mayor’s map to direct herself in the direction farthest from civilization. To find Killian. To find Magnus. To find someone who can destroy this thing. As she rides, leaving the ruins of Armos behind, she wonders if she needs a healer for her wounds. But she is the only one with the headphones. She has to avoid people as much as possible, lest someone else suffers the same fate as Isaak. Maybe she should hide the staff, then find help. Or maybe she should—

She has no idea what to do next as the sweet death of Armos spreads once more.

* * *

Night falls sooner than Taako expects. Seemingly, one moment sunlight glints off the beads in Kravitz’s braids, his skin warm and rich under the sun, and the next the lanterns strung over the street are lit, basking the ongoing party in a warm glow. The air chilling, Taako tugs his cloak closer around his shoulders. As Kravitz tries to fend off the old ladies trying to give him ale, the snicker ripping through Taako’s chest grows silent, his face falling as he realizes how much time has passed. Where did the day go? He and Kravitz had been looking for Paloma, but then Kravitz had offhandedly mentioned not having eaten in a few centuries. The very idea had been absurd, and it had been Taako’s duty to rectify that.

Taako jumps to his feet, hands smacking the table. “Shit.”

“What’s up?” Kravitz asks, finally freed from the old ladies now that there is a perturbed elf to deal with.

“Full offense, but we one-hundred percent fucked up.”

Kravitz cranes his neck, looking up at the sky. “Huh. Time is so strange here.”

“Here.” Taako plucks a scone off a plate, about to toss it. But he pauses, a hum in his throat as he brings it closer to his face.

“Are you going to give that to me or—”

Taako sniffs then drags his tongue along the edge in a slobbery lick. He ignores Kravitz’s snicker of amusement, frowning as the buttery taste fills his senses. “She’s near.”

Kravitz starts to reply, opening his mouth before a thought makes him pause. “Are you like a bloodhound or something?”

“These are her scones and they’re _fresh_.”

“It nice seeing you once more, hm?” Taako goes ramrod straight, jumping away as Paloma’s tiny voice hits him. Next to him, she seems so petite that she might be a dwarf instead of a human. Under the lantern light, her smile crinkles her face like a well-baked cookie. “You enjoying party? It very nice, yes?”

“Paloma _…”_ Taako steeples his fingers, restraining himself behind a curly smile. “Where’re you been? Not like I’ve been looking for you all day or anything.”

“Ah—see here: I avoid _you_ all day.” She taps her temple, serene as Taako fumes. “I see you coming—said to myself: this is my day off! Can’t work when there’s party.”

“Old lady,” Taako says, ears standing up straight. “This is, like, real-fucking-important.”

Paloma waves him off. “You have prophecy already. Don’t need more.”

“I…” He trails off, paling as he remembers the erratic crystal that had fallen from her ceiling those years ago. He’d seen a picture of the world covered in the oily black of the Hunger and another of a gray death caused by severed bonds. He’d pushed the thought of them out of his mind, knowing that the relics were going to be safe, but now that they are back the hunt for the Light, he can’t help but feel his lungs crush.

A dainty hand takes the front of his shirt and tugs him downwards until he is eye-level with Paloma. “You are lost,” she says wisely. “I see—you have eyes laden with world’s burdens. You are damage goods.”

He laughs, strained and hoarse. “Like the eyepatch?”

“No talk about eye. Beard is shame. Do better.” She pats his cheek, too serene in face for him to be too mad. “I break promise today—I give prophecy, big and small. You have friends? Boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” he rasps out. Alarm runs down his arms, the implications that he might be interested in Kravitz as something more than whatever they have now sending his ears up in alarm once more. Since when was _that_ a thing?

It’s not, he decides. He refuses to look in Kravitz’s direction out of spite.

“Bring all,” Paloma says. “We need strong power for prophecy. Temple of Istus will do, yes?”

* * *

Calls on stones are made. Lucretia and Angus arrive first, both smug and satisfied from what had been an enthralling game of horseshoes. She frets at the sight of Kravitz, awkwardly trying to both ask him how he’s doing while also explaining to Angus their trite history. Magnus and his family come sometime later, Stevie on his shoulders as he holds his wife’s hand. All three are in better spirits than anyone has seen them in a long time, the adults making plumy eye contact. They’re so lovey-dovey that when Lucretia sets to introducing them to Kravitz, Taako wanders away. He stands at the base of his statue, squinting at the harsh shadows crossing the replica of him and Ren. They look impressive, like behemoths from a worthy bard’s song. He squares his shoulders and stands straighter. The artist had carved his arm to be interlocked with Ren, as if they’re trying to press their backs closer together.

Taako crosses his arms as he turns away, leaning against the base as he watches Magnus’s hearty handshake turn Kravitz’s hand back to bone for a moment, prompting Stevie to start asking a million questions. The reaper tries to chuckle his way out.

Merle comes last with a hungover Davenport leaning into his side. “Didn’t taste the moonshine, if you get what we mean,” Merle explains. He gives his partner a loving pat on the cheek, which makes him, in turn, groan out his name. “Had to use a little sobering magic on him to get him past the smashed drunk stage, but we’re okay.”

They wait for Paloma to finish cooing over Angus (she occasionally turns to Stevie and asks her to stop being trouble), but when she does, she waves a loose hand and shuffles towards the white plaster temple. “Come, come. Many futures to see.”

Taako has his foot halfway through the threshold when he notices Kravitz hesitating a few feet away, mouth twisting into something unpleasant as he lingers. “Yo, hurry up Bone Man. We don’t got all day.”

“I can’t cross through.” To demonstrate, he holds out a hand and tries to put it past. It hits an invisible barrier, one that leaves him grimacing the more he tries to push through. Silver magic festoon from the tips of his fingers, revealing his skeletal form. Finally, he pulls it back, covering his hand under his formal blanket. “Being a member of the Raven Queen’s guard restricts my ability to enter holy places not of my own. Hopefully you can handle being alone for a few minutes.”

Taako looks away, clearing his throat. “Yeah, well. You know the answer to that.” And he turns, walking into the temple. The door is a simple wood board, but it shuts with a noise that hints at something grander.

The temple is exactly the way Taako remembers it. Plain and homely, but refurbished after the fall of the bubble. The rows of pews are worn from love, not disuse. Tall, plain windows line the sides of the church, each separated by flickering candles that light the space dimly. The heels of his shoes make a clicking echo on the orange-tile floor, announcing his return to the group. Everyone shifts awkwardly, not sure what to do as Paloma makes her way to the front. Every step is like delicate glass. Despite being told no multiple times, Angus once again asks if she would like some assistance. “No, no, no—I’m not too frail, you see. I walk few steps alone.” When she reaches the modest wood altar, she lowers shakingly onto her knees. “Take seat. Be comfortable. This not long.”

Before they can, colors burst outside. Fireworks of vibrant reds and blues fill the night sky, causing an uproar of applause in the distance. “Whoa,” Stevie says as she climbs off Magnus’s shoulders. “That’s so cool!”

Julia places a hand on her shoulder, directing her towards the pew. “ _Shhh,_ Stevie this is a temple—“

A hush falls. The candles blow out. Now the fireworks color the temple in their shades, causing shadows that weren’t there before. Merle makes a holy gesture while the Burnsides pull their daughter close to their legs. Silence settles over, so oppressive even Davenport’s heavy breaths can’t break through. Lucretia gives Taako a sideways glance, hand lingering near her wand but never pulling it. “Taako,” she hisses. “Is this supposed to happen?”

Taako doesn’t answer. He makes sure that Angus is also within reach, then turns his attention onto Paloma. She’s still kneeling, unmoving with her head bowed in prayer, still as a statue. The last of the lights fade out, only for another volley of fireworks to launch into the air. They burst as every window shatters. The glass falls in slow motion. Hot reds and vivid golds and royal blues clash together in a visual cacophony, making rainbows in the glass falling onto the ground. They all huddle together, everyone prepared to act when a voice rings out:

_I see all of existence all at once._

When the glass hits the floor, it dissolves into dust that shimmers in the air. The temple changes, morphing into the image of the stars, littered with galaxies and planes orbiting each other. They flicker, erratic in a nauseating dance that leaves them dizzy. A particular gold light bounces around all of existence, never staying long before leaving again.

_I see a dark storm—a living hunger eating it from within._

And they see the oily tendrils of the Hunger appear, spreading outwards as a mass that swallows existence whole. It chases the gold light, unflinching as it consumes all in its path. Then the gold light is no longer alone. Red dots escort it, sometimes out of sync but always going to the same places. Sometimes the red will start to stray, but then the gold will go in a different direction and, as if a prisoner, the red is forced to follow. This goes on for some time, the gold light growing in size with the Hunger. The red dots do as well, but the larger they get, the more apparent their forms become. Birds. Seven identical song birds.

_And I see a brilliant light that had been broken by seven birds._

The birds dig their beaks into the gold light, ripping it into sevens. Then they go in opposite directions, flying around the Red Robes’ heads in patterns that don’t line up. Swooping in low before shooting upwards again. Never singing, unable to release the light trapped in their beaks.

_Seven birds hiding from the storm._

The birds vanish, and the Hunger starts to recede.

_The Twins._

Two of the birds appear again, seemingly unaware of each other. They flap to Taako, each perching on his shoulder. They’re weightless, and when he tries to poke them his finger goes straight through. One of the birds flies off first, circling the ceiling. The second soon follows.

_The Lover._

Another bird. This one struggles to fly. It sweeps around them all, once again brushing against Taako before joining the other two.

_The Protector._

A bird dives between Julia and Magnus, sweeping over the top of Stevie’s hair. The ghostly forms of two silvery birds dance with this one before it too starts circling the ceiling.

_The Lonely Journal Keeper._

Lucretia watches as a bird pecks her hand before flapping away.

_The Peacemaker._

This one from Merle.

_And the Wordless One._

And this one from Davenport, both joining the others until all seven are circling the air, separate but the same. Running away from each other.

Paloma stands. And she turns. Age has no meaning to her—her back is straight, head held high in reverence. Her eyes are rolled back, glowing a faint white as a voice that is not her own fills her mouth.

_You were not predestined for this fate, but luck deems you worthy. But as birds fly from the winter, you too hid from the storm and damned the world to a slow death. But a string had already been pulled for you— Lady Fate averted a tragedy that would’ve torn you apart._

The galaxy disappears. They’re in Lucretia’s dorm in the _Starblaster_. She stands before the voidfish’s tank, back turned from them as they watch the volumes of her journals be consumed. Then they’re watching a disorientated Davenport grip his mouth and throat, sobbing as he repeats _I’m Davenport_ in a mantra. Barry lays face down in a deserted field, dead as his phantom form rises from the corpse. Merle lays on the ground of a crystalized room, delirious from pain as his arm turns to pink gem. _Julia!_ Magnus screams, running into the smoldering rubble of Raven’s Roost. He pulls back wood and stone, uncovering a limp arm on whose hand glints a wedding ring. Taako stands in a show wagon, horror on his face as he watches a crowd become sick. The horror becomes anger when the scene shifts—the six of them, standing in a dome room as he holds a familiar umbrella at an older Lucretia, shouting her sins.

All the while, the seven birds above fly in circles. Songbirds turned vultures.

_But by choosing cowardice instead of fighting the storm, the tragedy you now stand to face will be greater_ _._

The birds break from their circles—mixed together, the monikers lost in the confusion as they once again soar around each other, weaving through the small gaps between the Red Robes' heads.

_Fly_ _north. Confront your mistakes. Only then will you be redeemed._

Merle holds out his arms, letting a few of the birds stop to perch before moving on. Davenport’s mouth is drawn tight, lip trembling, hand pressed to chest as a traditional naval officer.

_Migrate north now and face the impending storm._

A few birds sweep around Angus. He has his hands pressed to his ears, face screwed in discomfort. The birds make a loop around him before moving on, flying to Magnus and Julia. While both of their faces are solemn, a spark of awe fills them both as the dazzling apparitions allow Julia to lightly touch the fake feathers before passing through.

_Face now your northern migration._

They go to Lucretia and Taako, nearly knocking the hat off his head and billowing her skirt.

_I saw seven birds._

Only one bird goes to Stevie. She brightens, holding her palms put for it. But it only circles around her, again and again, not allowing itself to be ensnared. She frowns, feeling her father's hand on her shoulders as she waits. When it does land, she smiles—soft and sweet. The bird pecks its feathers, ruffling, and opens its beak to sing.

A howling screech ruptures the air. The magic shatters, the bird disintegrates. Stevie doesn’t even scream, too consumed with shock as she watches the glimmering red dust fall between her fingers, splashing onto her shoes like blood.

_Now I only see six._

The remaining birds fly over Paloma’s head, swooping low that a gust of wind punches them, so strong that it even knocks back the pews on either side. When the birds go out the window, they vanish with the depiction of the enormity of existence, leaving no trace of their grim prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll think I would have something smart to say after taking so much time to write this. But that's where you're wrong. Some many very important things happened this chapter that I actually can't figure out what I should focus my jokes on. Is it the fact that Lup's finally been found? The fact that the next relic arc has been revealed? Or do I just bring up that we're nearly thirty chapters in and I have only now figured out a meaning for the story title? One of those three.
> 
> If you want actual commentary on the numerous little details in this story, please check out the additional chapter notes [ right here. ](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/post/182488996931/northern-migration-chapter-28-notes-preview)Also, follow my blog.
> 
> Of course, thank you so much for reading! You guys have to have incredible patience to stick around with this story for so long, and I appreciate every single one of you. Hearing from you guys always brightens my day, and I'm going to continue trying to give you guys all a story worth investing so much time into. So thank you! Xoxoxoxxoxo

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ miamaroo  
> twitter @ miamaroo


End file.
